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HO  MAS  nuGrlhS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Professor  Ada  B.  Nisbet 


TOM  BROWN  AT 
OXFORD 


A  SEQUEL  TO 

SCHOOL  DAYS  AT  RUGBY 


By  the  Author  of 

'School  Days  at  Rugby,"  " Scouring  of  the  White  Horse," 
Etc. 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS  -          NEW  YORK 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  Ameiica 


TO 

MRS.   ARNOLD, 

OF  FOX  HOWE, 
THIS  BOOK   IS   (WITHOUT  HER  PERMISSION) 

DEDICATED 

BY    THE    AUTHOR, 

WHO  OWES  MORE  THAN   HE  CAN   EVER  ACKNOWLEDGE  OR  FORGBT 
TO  HER  AND  HERS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE> 

tntrodnctorfT .V. 1 

CHAPTER  I.  — St .  Ambrose  College 2 

CHAPTEB  II.— A  Row  on  the  River. 10 

CHAPTEB  IIL — A  Breakfast  at  Drysdale's a5 

CHAPTEB  IV.— The  St.  Ambrose  Boat  Club  ;  its  Ministry  and  their 

Budget 37 

CHAPTEB  V. — Hardy  the  Servitor 45 

CHAPTEB  VI.— How  Drysdale  and  Blake  went  Fishing. 55 

CHAPTEB  VII. — An  Explosion 71 

CHAPTEB  VIII.— Hardy's  Histary 77 

CHAPTEB  IX.— A  Brown  Bait 91 

CHAPTEB  X. — Summer  Term 98 

CHAPTEB  XI. — Muscular  Christianity 112 

CHAPTEB  XIL— -The  Captain's  Notions '. 129 

CHAPTEB  XIII.— The  first  Bump 143 

CHAPTEB  XIV. — A  Change  in  the  Crew,  and  what  came  of  it 15<? 

EHAPTEB  XV. — A  Storm  Brews  and  Breaks 167 

CHAPTEB  XVI.— The  Storm  Rages i78 

CHAPTER  XVIL— New  Ground 187 

CHAPTER  XVIII.— Englebourn  Village 197 

CHAPTER  XIX. — A  Promise  of  Fairer  Weather 212 

CHAPTER  XX. — The  Reconciliation 224 

CHAPTER  XXI. — Captain  Hardy  entertained  by  St.  Ambrose 228 

CHAPTER  XXII. — Departures  expected  and  unexpected 237 

CHAPTER  XXHI.— The  Englebourn   Constable 249 

CHAPTEB  XXIV. — The  Schools 261 

CHAPTER  XXV. — Commemoration 27U 

CHAPTER  XXVL— The  Long  Walk  in  Christ-Church  Meadows 283 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. — Lecturing  a  Lioness 299 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. — The  End  of  the  Freshman's  Year 310 

CHAPTER  XXIX.— The  Long  Vacation  Letter-Bag 319 

CHAPTER  XXX. — Amusements  at  Barton  Manor 333 

CHAPTER  XXXI.— Behind  the  Scenes 339 

CHAPTER  XXXII.— A  Crisis 347 

CHAPTER  XXXIII.— Brown  Patronus 360 

CHAPTER  XXXIV.— M>?5^  &ya» 378 

CHAPTER  XXXV.— Second  Year 391 

CHAPTER  XXXVI.— The  River-Side 402 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. —The  Night-Watch 4H 

CHAPTER  XXXVIIL— Mary  in  Mayfair 422 

CHAPTER  XXXIX.— What  Came  of  the  Night- Watch 431 

CHAPTER  XL. — Hue  and  Cry 441 

CHAPTER  XLI. — The  Lieutenant's  Sentiments  and  Problems 452 

CHAPTER  XLII.— Third  Year 461 

CHAPTER  XLIII.  —Afternoon  Visitors 473 

CHAPTER  XLIV. — The  Intercepted  Letter-Bag 484 

CHAPTER  XL V.— Master's  Term 499 

CHAPTER  XL VI. — From  India  to  Englebourn 506 

CHAPTER  XL VII. —The  Wedding-day 514 

CHAPTER  XL VIII. —A  Meeting  in  the  Street 523 

CHAPTER  XLIX.— The  End 532 

CHAPTER  L. — The  Postscript 541 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

IN  the  Michaelmas  term  after  leaving  school,  Tom  Brown 
received  a  summons  from  the  authorities,  and  went  up  to  ma- 
triculate at  St.  Ambrose's  College,  Oxford.  He  presented  him- 
self at  the  college  one  afternoon,  and  was  examined  by  one  of 
the  tutors,  who  carried  him,  and  several  other  youths  in  like 
predicament,  up  to  the  Senate  House  the  next  morning ;  where 
they  went  through  the  usual  forms  of  subscribing  to  the  articles, 
and  otherwise  testifying  their  loyalty  to  the  established  order 
of  things,  without  much  thought  perhaps,  but  in  very  good  faith 
nevertheless.  Having  completed  the  ceremony,  by  paying  his 
fees,  our  hero  hurried  back  home,  without  making  any  stay  in 
Oxford.  He  had  often  passed  through  it,  so  that  the  city  had 
not  the  charm  of  novelty  for  him,  and  he  was  anxious  to  get 
home ;  where,  as  he  had  never  spent  an  autumn  away  from 
school  till  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  having  his  fill 
of  hunting  and  shooting. 

He  had  left  school  in  June,  and  did  not  go  up  to  reside  at 
Oxford  till  the  end  of  the  following  January.  Seven  good 
months ;  during  a  part  of  which  he  had  indeed  read  for  four 
hours  or  so  a  week  with  the  curate  of  the  parish,  but  the  residue 
had  been  exclusively  devoted  to  cricket  and  field  sports.  Now, 
admirable  as  these  institutions  are,  and  beneficial  as  is  their  in- 
fluence on  the  youth  of  Britain,  it  is  possible  for  a  youngster  to 
get  too  much  of  them.  So  it  had  fallen  out  with  our  hero.  He 
was  a  better  horseman  and  shot,  but  the  total  relaxation  of  all 
the  healthy  discipline  of  school,  the  regular  hours  and  regular 
work  to  which  he  had  been  used  for  so  many  years,  had  certainly 
thrown  him  back  in  other  ways.  The  whole  man  had  not  grown ; 
so  that  we  must  not  be  snrpi'ised  to  find  him  quite  as  boyish, 
now  that  we  fall  in  with  him  again,  marching  down  to  St 


6  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Ambrose's  with  a  porter  wheeling  his  luggage  after  him  on  a 
truck,  as  when  we  left  him  at  the  end  of  his  school  career. 

Tom  was  in  truth  beginning  to  feel  that  it  was  high  time  for 
him  to  be  getting  to  regular  work  again  of  some  sort.  A  landing 
place  is  a  famous  thing,  but  it  is  only  enjoyable  for  a  time  by 
any  mortal  who  deserves  one  at  all.  So  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
unmixed  pleasure  that  he  turned  in  at  the  St.  Ambrose  gates, 
and  inquired  of  the  porter  what  rooms  had  been  allotted  to  him 
within  those  venerable  walls. 

While  the  porter  consulted  his  list,  the  great  college  sun-dial, 
over  the  lodge,  which  had  lately  been  renovated,  caught  Tom's 
eye.  The  motto  underneath,  "  Pereunt  et  imputantur,"  stood 
out,  proud  of  its  new  gilding,  in  the  bright  afternoon  sun  of  a 
frosty  January  day :  which  motto  was  raising  sundry  thoughts 
in  his  brain,  when  the  porter  came  upon  the  right  place  in  his 
list,  and  directed  him  to  the  end  of  his  journey:  No.  5  staircase, 
second  quadrangle,  three  pair  back.  In  which  new  home  we 
shall  leave  him  to  install  himself,  while  we  endeavor  to  give 
*he  reader  some  notion  of  the  college  itself. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ST.  AMBROSE'S  COLLEGE. 

ST.  AMBROSE'S  COLLEGE  was  a  moderate-sized  one.  There 
might  have  been  some  seventy  or  eighty  undergraduates  in 
residence,  when  our  hero  appeared  there  as  a  freshman.  Of 
these,  unfortunately  for  the  college,  there  were  a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  gentleman-commoners  ;  enough,  in  fact, 
with  the  other  men  whom  they  drew  round  them,  and  who 
lived  pretty  much  as  they  did,  to  form  the  largest  and  lead- 
ing set  in  the  college.  So  the  college  was  decidedly  fast ;  in 
fact,  it  was  the  fast  college  of  the  day. 

The  chief  characteristic  of  this  set  was  the  most  reckless 
extravagance  of  every  kind.  London  wine  merchants  fur- 
nished them  with  liqueurs  at  a  guinea  a  bottle,  and  wine  at 
five  guineas  a  dozen ;  Oxford  and  London  tailors  vied  with 
one  another  in  providing  them  with  unheard-of  quantities  of 
the  most  gorgeous  clothing.  They  drove  tandems  in  all  direc- 
tions, scattering  their  ample  allowances,  which  they  treated 
as  pocket  money,  about  roadside  inns  and  Oxford  taverns 
with  open  hand,  and  "  going  tick "  for  everything  which 
could  by  possibility  be  booked.  Their  cigars  cost  two  guin- 
eas a  pound;  their  furniture  was  the  best  that  could  be 


ST.  AMBKOSE'S  COLLEGE. 

bought ;  pine-apples,  forced  fruit,  and  the  most  rare  presences 
figured  at  their  wine  parties  ;  they  hunted,  rode  steeple-el xases 
by  day,  played  billiards  until  the  gates  closed,  and  then 
were  ready  for  vingt-et-uiie,  unlimited  loo,  and  hot  drink  in 
their  own  rooms,  as  long  as  any  one  could  be  got  to  sit  up 
and  play. 

The  fast  set  then  swamped,  and  gave  the  tone  to  the  col- 
lege ;  at  which  fact  no  persons  were  more  astonislied  and  hor- 
rified than  the  authorities  of  St.  Ambrose. 

That  they  of  all  bodies  in  the  world  should  be  fairly  run 
away  with  by  u  set  of  reckless,  loose  young  spendthrifts,  was 
indeed  a  melancholy  and  unprecedented  fact;  for  the  body  of 
fellows  of  St.  Ambrose  was  as  distinguished  for  learning, 
morality  and  respectability  as  any  in  tUe  University.  The 
foundation  was  not,  indeed,  actually  aw  open  one.  Oriel  at 
that  time  alone  enjoyed  this  distinction ;  but  there  were  a 
large  number  of  open  fellowships,  and  the  income  of  the  col- 
lege was  large,  and  the  livings  belonging  to  it  numerous ;  so 
that  the  best  men  from  other  colleges  were  constantly  coming- 
in.  Some  of  these  of  a  former  generation  had  been  eminently 
successful  in  their  management  of  the  college.  The  St.  Am- 
brose undergraduates  at  one  time  had  carried  off  almost  all 
the  university  prizes,  and  filled  the  class  lists,  while  maintain- 
ing at  the  same  time  the  highest  character  for  manliness  and 
gentlemanly  conduct.  Thi?  had  lasted  long  enough  to  estab- 
lish the  fame  of  the  college,  and  great  lords  and  statesmen  had 
sent  their  sons  there ;  bead-masters  had  struggled  to  get  the 
names  of  their  best  pupils  on  the  books ;  in  short,  every  one 
who  had  a  son,  ward/  or  pupil,  whom  he  vanted  to  push  for- 
ward in  the  world->who  was  meant  to  cut  a  figure,  and  take 
the  lead  among  med,  left  no  stone  unturned  to  get  him  into 
St.  Ambrose's ;  apd  thought  the  first,  and  a  very  long  step 
gained  when  he  ^ad  succeeded. 

But  the  governing  bodies  of  colleges  are  always  on  the 
change,  and,  i/the  course  of  things  men  of  other  ideas  cam^ 
to  rule  at  S/.  Ambrose — shrewd  men  of  the  world ;  men  of 
business,  so/ae  of  them,  with  good  ideas  of  making  the  most  of 
their  advantages ;  who  said,  "  Go  to  :  why  should  we  not 
make  the  public  pay  for  the  great  benefits  we  confer  on 
them?  Have  we  not  the  very  best  article  in  the  educational 
market  to  supply — almost  a  monopoly  of  it — and  shall  we  not 
get  t^e  highest  price  for  it?"  So  "by  degrees  they  altered 
mai#  things  in  the  college.  In  the  fiVst  place,  under  their 
ampiees,  gentlemen-commoners  increased  and  multiplied  ;  in 
fact,  the  eldest  sons  of  baronets,  even  of  squires,  were  scarcely 


g  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

admitted  on  any  other  footing.  As  these  young  gentlemen 
paid  double  fees  to  the  college,  and  had  great  expectations  of 
all  sorts,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  they  should  be  subject 
to  quite  the  same  discipline  as  the  common  run  of  men,  who 
Would  have  to  make  their  own  way  in  the  world.  So  the 
rules  as  to  attendance  at  chapel  and  lectures,  were  relaxed 
lazed  in  their  favor ;  and,  that  they  might  find  all  things  suit- 
able to  persons  in  their  position,  the  kitchen  and  buttery  were 
worked  up  to  a  high  state  of  perfection,  and  St.  Ambrose, 
from  having  been  one  of  the  most  reasonable,  had  come  to  be 
about  the  most  expensive  college  in  the  university.  These 
changes  worked  as  their  promoters  probably  desired  thr.t  they 
should  work,  and  the  college  was  full  of  rich  men,  and  com- 
manded in  the  university  the  sort  of  respect  which  riches 
bring  with  them.  But  the  old  reputation,  though  still  strong 
out  of  doors,  was  beginning  sadly  to  wane  within  the  univer- 
sity precincts.  Fewer  and  fewer  of  the  St.  Ambrose  men  ap- 
peared in  the  class  lists,  or  amongst  the  prize-men.  They  no 
longer  led  the  debates  at  the  Union  ;  the  boat  lost  place  after 
place  on  the  river;  the  eleven  got  beaten  in  all  their  matches. 
The  inaugurators  of  these  changes  had  passed  away  in  their 
turn,  and  at  last  a  reaction  had  commenced.  The  fellows  re- 
cently elected,  and  who  were  in  residence  at  the  time  we  write 
of,  were  for  the  most  part  men  of  great  attainments,  all  of 
them  men  who  had  taken  very  high  honors.  The  electors 
naturally  enough  had  chosen  them  as  the  most  likely  persons 
to  restore,  as  tutors,  the  golden  days  of  the  college  ;  and  they 
had  been  careful  in  the  selection  to  confine  themselves  to 
very  quiet  and  studious  men,  such  as  were  likely  to  remain  up 
at  Oxford,  passing  over  men  of  more  popular  manners  and 
active  spirits,  vho  would  be  sure  to  flit  soon  into  the  world, 
and  be  of  little  nore  service  to  St.  Ambrose. 

But  these  vfere  not  the  men  to  get  any  hold  on  the  fast  set 
who  were  now  in  the  ascendant.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  tMey  should  understand  each  other ;  in  fact,  they 
were  hopelessly  at  w*r,  and  the  college  was  getting  more  and 
more  out  of  gear  in  corsequence. 

What  they  could  do,  however,  they  were  doing;  and  undei 
their  fostering  care  were  growing  up  a  small  set,  including  most 
of  the  scholars,  who  were  ^kely,  as  far  so  they  were  concerned, 
to  retrieve  /the  college  character  in  the  schools.  But  they  were 
too  much  /like  their  tutors,  nen  who  did  little  else  but  read. 
They  neit/her  wished,  nor  we~e  likely  to  gain,  the  slightest  in- 
fluence ori  the  fast  set.  The  bett  men  amongst  them,  too,  were 
diligent  readers  of  the  Tracts  f^r  the  Times,  and  followers  of 


ST.  AMBROSE'S  COLLEGE.  9 

the  able  leaders  of  the  High-church  party,  which  was  then  a 
growing  one ;  and  this  led  them  also  to  form  such  friendships 
as  they  made  amongst  out-college  men  of  their  own  way  of  think- 
ing— with  high  churchmen,  rather  than  St.  Ambrose  men.  So 
they  lived  very  much  to  themselves,  and  scarcely  interfered 
with  the  dominant  party. 

Lastly,  there  was  the  boating  set,  which  was  beginning  to 
revive  in  the  college,  partly  from  the  natural  disgust  of  any  body 
of  young  Englishmen,  at  finding  themselves  distanced  in  an 
exercise  requiring  strength  and  pluck,  and  partly  from  the 
fact  that  the  captain  for  the  time  being  was  one  of  the  best  oars 
in  the  University  boat,  and  also  a  deservedly  popular  character. 
He  was  now  in  his  third  year  of  residence,  had  won  the  pair- 
oar  race,  and  had  pulled  seven  in  the  great  yearly  match  with 
Cambridge,  and  by  constant  hard  work  had  managed  to  carry 
the  St.  Ambrose  boat  up  to  the  fifth  place  on  the  river.  He 
will  be  introduced  to  you,  gentle  reader,  when  the  proper  time 
comes ;  at  present,  we  are  only  concerned  with  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  college,  that  you  may  feel  more  or  less  at  home  in 
it.  The  boating  set  was  not  so  separate  or  marked  as  the  read- 
ing set,  melting  on  one  side  into,  and  keeping  up  more  or  less  con- 
nection with,  the  fast  set,  and  also  commanding  a  sort  of  half 
allegiance  from  most  of  the  men  who  belonged  to  neither  of  the 
other  sets.  The  minor  divisions,  of  which  of  course  there  were 
many,  need  not  be  particularized,  as  the  above  general  classifi- 
cation will  be  enough  for  the  purposes  of  this  history. 

Our  hero,  on  leaving  school,  having  bound  himself  solemnly 
to  write  all  his  doings  and  thoughts  to  the  friend  whom  he 
had  left  behind  him  :  distance  and  separation  were  to  make  no 
difference  whatever  in  their  friendship.  This  compact  had  been 
made  on  one  of  their  last  evenings  at  Rugby.  They  were  sitting 
together  in  the  six-form  room,  Tom  splicing  the  handle  of  a 
favorite  cricket  bat,  and  Arthur  reading  a  volume  of  Raleigh's 
works.  The  Doctor  had  lately  been  alluding  to  the  "History 
of  the  World,"  and  had  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  active-minded 
amongst  his  pupils  about  the  great  navigator,  statesman,  soldier, 
author,  the  fine  gentleman.  So  Raleigh's  works  were  seized  on  by 
various  voracious  young  readers,  and  carried  out  of  the  school 
library ;  and  Arthur  was  now  deep  in  a  volume  of  the  "  Mis- 
cellanies," curled  up  on  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Presently,  Tom 
heard  something  between  a  groan  and  a  protest,  and  looking 
up,  demanded  explanations ;  in  answer  to  which,  Arthur,  in  a 
voice  half  furious  and  half  fearful,  read  out : — 

"  Arid  be  sure  of  this,  *,hou  shalt,  never  find  a  friend  in  thy 


10  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

young  years  whose  condition  and  qualities  will  please  thee  after 
thou  comest  to  more  discretion  and  judgment ;  and  then  all  thou 
givest  is  lost,  and  all  wnerein  thou  shalt  trust  such  a  one  will 
be  discovered." 

"  You  don't  mean  that's  Raleigh's  ?  " 
"  Yes — here  it  is,  in  his  first  letter  to  his  son." 
"  What  a  cold-blooded  old  Philistine,"  said  Tom. 
"  But  it  can't  be  true,  do  you  think?  "  said  Arthur. 
And,  in  short,  after  some  personal  reflections  on  Sir  Walter5 
they  then  and  there  resolved  that,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned, 
it  was  not,  could  not,  and  should  not  be  true  ;  that  they  would" 
remain  faithful,  the  same  to  each  other,  and  the  greatest  friends 
in  the  world,  through  I  know  not  what  separations,  trials  and 
catastrophes.  And  for  the  better  insuring  this  i*esult,  a  corre- 
spondence, regular  as  the  recurring  months,  was  to  be  maintained. 
It  had  already  lasted  through  the  long  vacation  and  up  to  Christ- 
mas without  sensibly  dragging,  though  Tom's  letters  had  been 
something  of  the  shortest  in  November,  when  he  had  had  lots 
of  shooting,  and  two  days  a  week  with  the  hounds.  Now,  how- 
ever, having  fairly  got  to  Oxford,  he  determined  to  make  up  for 
all  short-comings.  His  first  letter  from  college,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  previous  sketch  of  the  place,  will  probably  ac- 
complish the  work  of  introduction  better  than  any  detailed 
account  by  a  third  party ;  and  it  is  therefore  given  here  ver- 
batim : — 

"  St.  Ambrose,  Oxford, 

"  February,  184— 

"MY  DEAE  GKOKDEE, — 

"  According  to  promise,  I  write  to  tell  you  how  I  get  on  up 
here,  and  what  sort  of  a  place  Oxford  is.  Of  course,  I  don't 
know  much  about  it  yet,  having  only  been  up  some  two  weeks ; 
but  you  shall  have  my  first  impresssions. 

"  Well,  first  and  foremost,  it's  an  awfully  idle  place ;  at  any 
rate,  for  us  freshmen.  Fancy  now.  I  am  in  twelve  lectures  a 
week  of  an  hour  each — Greek  Testament,  first  book  of  Hero- 
dotus, second  JSneid,  and  first  book  of  Euclid  !  There's  a 
treat !  Two  hours  a  day ;  all  over  by  twelve,  or  one  at  latest ; 
and  no  extra  work  at  all,  in  the  shape  of  copies  of  verses,  themes, 
or  other  exercises. 

"  I  think  sometimes  I'm  back  in  the  lower-fifth  ;  for  we 
don't  get  through  more  than  we  used  to  do  there  ;  and  if  you 
were  to  hear  the  men  construe,  it  would  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end.  Where  on  earth  can  they  have  come  from  ?  unless 
they  blunder  on  purpose,  o&_ J  often  think.  Of  course,  I  never 


ST.  AMBROSE  VQLLEUE.  \\ 

look  at  a  lecture  before  I  go  in,  I  know  it  all  nearly  by  heart, 
so  it  would  be  sheer  waste  of  time.  I  hope  I  shall  take  to 
reading  something  or  other  by  myself  ;  but  you  know  I  never 
was  much  of  a  hand  at  sapping,  and,  for  the  present,  the  light 
work  suits  me  well  enough,  for  there's  lots  to  see  and  learu 
about  in  this  place. 

"  We  keep  very  gentlemanly  hours.  Chapel  every  morning 
at  eight,  and  evening  at  seven.  You  must  attend  once  a  day, 
and  twice  on  Sundays — at  least,  that's  the  rule  of  our  college 
— and  be  in  gates  by  twelve  o'clock  at  night.  Besides  which, 
if  you're  a  decently  steady  fellow,  you  ought  to  dine  in  hall 
perhaps  four  days  a  week.  Hall  is  at  five  o'clock.  And  now 
you  have  the  sum  total.  All  the  rest  of  your  time  you  may 
just  do  what  you  like  with. 

"  So  much  for  our  work  and  hours.  Now  for  the  place. 
Well,  it's  a  grand  old  place,  certainly  ;  and  I  dare  say,  if  a 
fellow  goes  straight  in  it,  and  gets  creditably  through  his 
three  years,  he  may  end  by  loving  it  as  much  as  we  do  the  old 
school-house  and  quadrangle  at  Rugby.  Our  college  is  a  fair 
specimen  ;  a  venerable  old  front  of  crumbling  stone  fronting  the 
street,  into  which  two  or  three  other  colleges  look  also.  Over 
the  gateway  is  a  large  room,  where  the  college  examinations 
go  on,  when  there  are  any  ;  and,  as  you  enter,  you  pass  the 
porter's  lodge,  where  resides  our  janitor,  a  bustling  little  man, 
with  a  pot  belly,  whose  business  it  is  to  put  down  the  time  at 
which  the  men  come  in  at  night,  and  to  keep  all  discommonsed 
tradesmen,  stray  dogs,  and  bad  characters  generally,  out  of  the 
college. 

"  The  large  quadrangle  into  which  you  come  first,  is  bigger 
than  ours  at  Rugby,  and  a  much  more  solemn  and  sleepy  sort  of 
a  place,  with  its  little  gables  and  old  mullioned  windows.  One 
side  is  occupied  by  the  hall  and  chapel;  the  principal's  house  takes 
up  half  another  side  ;  and  the  rest  is  divided  into  staircases,  on 
each  of  which  are  six  or  eight  sets  of  rooms,  inhabited  by  us 
undergraduates,  with  here  and  there  a  tutor  or  fellow  dropped 
tlown  amongst  us  (in  the  first-floor  rooms,  of  course),  not  ex, 
actly  to  keep  order,  but  to  act  as  a  sort  of  ballast.  Thia 
quadrangle  is  the  show  part  of  the  college,  and  is  generally  re- 
spectable and  quiet,  which  is  a  good  deal  more  than  can  be  said 
for  the  inner  quadrangle,  which  you  get  at  through  a  passage 
leading  out  of  the  other.  The  rooms  ain't  half  so  large  or  good 
in  the  inner  quad ;  and  here's  where  all  we  freshmen  live,  be- 
sides a  lot  of  the  older  undergraduates  who  don't  care  to  change 
their  rooms.  Only  one  tutor  has  rooms  here  ;  and  I  should 
think,  if  he's  a  reading  man,  it  won't  be  long  before  he  clears 


12  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

out ;  for  all  sorts  of  Light  jinks  go  on  on  the  grass-plot,  and  the 
row  on  the  staircases  is  often  as  bad,  and  not  half  so  respectable 
as  it  used  to  be  in  the  middle  passage  in  the  last  week  of  the  half- 
year. 

"  My  rooms  are  what  they  call  garrets,  right  up  in  the  roof, 
with  a  commanding  view  of  college  tiles  and  chimney  pots, 
and  of  houses  at  the  back.  No  end  of  cats,  both  college  Toms 
and  strangers,  haunt  the  neighborhood,  and  I  am  rapidly  learn- 
ing cat-talk  from  them  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it — I 
don't  want  to  know  cat-talk.  The  college  Toms  are  protected 
by  the  statutes,  I  believe ;  but  I'm  going  to  buy  an  air-gun  for 
the  benefit  of  the  strangers.  My  rooms  are  pleasant  enough,  at 
the  top  of  the  kitchen  staircase,  and  separated  from  all  man- 
kind by  a  great,  iron-clamped,  outer  door,  my  oak  which  I  sport 
when  I  go  out  or  want  to  be  quiet ;  sitting-room  eighteen  by 
twelve,  bedroom  twelve  by  eight,  and  a  little  cupboard  for  the 
scout. 

"  Ah,  Geordie,  the  scout  is  an  institution !  Fancy  me  waited 
upon  and  valeted  by  a  stout  party  in  black,  of  quiet,  gentleman- 
ly manners,  like  the  benevolent  father  in  a  comedy.  He  takes 
the  deepest  interest  in  all  my  possessions  and  proceedings,  and 
is  evidently  used  to  good  society,  to  judge  by  the  amount  of 
crockery  and  glass,  wines,  liquors,  and  grocery,  which  he  thinks 
indispensable  for  my  due  establishment.  He  has  also  been 
good  enough  to  recommend  me  to  many  tradesmen  who  are 
ready  to  supply  these  articles  in  any  quantities ;  each  of  whom 
has  been  here  already  a  dozen  times,  cap  in  hand,  and  vowing 
that  it  is  quite  immaterial  when  I  pay — which  is  very  kind  of 
them  ;  but,  with  the  highest  respect  for  friend  Perkins  (my 
scout)  and  his  obliging  friends,  I  shall  make  some  inquiries 
before  "  letting  in"  with  any  of  them.  He  waits  on  me  in  hall 
where  we  go  in  full  fig  of  cap  and  gown  at  five,  and  get  very 
good  dinners,  and  cheap  enough.  It  is  rather  o  fine  old  room 
with  a  good,  arched,  black  oak  ceiling  and  high  panelling,  hung 
round  with  pictures  of  old  swells,  bishops  and  lords,  chiefly, 
who  have  endowed  the  college  in  some  way,  or  at  least  have 
fed  here  in  IPimes  gone  by,  and  for  whom,  "  caBterisque  bene- 
i'actoribus  nostris,"  we  daily  give  thanks  in  a  long  Latin  grace, 
which  one  of  the  undergraduates  (I  think  it  must  be)  goes  and 
rattles  out  at  the  end  of  the  high  table,  and  then  comes  down 
again  from  the  dais  to  his  own  place.  No  one  feeds  at  the  high 
table  except  the  dons  and  the  gentlemen-commoners,  who  are 
undergradutes  in  velvet  caps  and  silk  gowns.  Why  they 
wear  these  instead  of  cloth  and  serge  I  haven't  yet  made  out,  I 
believe  it  is  because  they  pay  double  fees  ;  but  they  seem  mi- 


ST.  AMBROSE'S  COLLEGE.  IB 

commonly  wretched  up  at  the  high  table,  and  I  should  think 
would  sooner  pay  double  to  come  to  the  otl.ar  end  of  the  hall. 

"  The  chapel  is  a  quaint  little  place,  about  the  size  of  the 
chancel  of  Lutterworth  Church.  It  just  holds  us  all  comfort- 
ably. The  attendance  is  regular  enough,  but  I  don't  think  the 
men  care  about  it  a  bit  in  general.  Several  I  can  see  bring  in 
Euclids,  and  other  lecture  books,  and  the  service  is  gone 
through  at  a  great  pace.  I  couldn't  think  at  first  why  some 
of  the  men  seemed  so  uncomfortable  and  stiff  about  the  legs 
at  morning  service,  but  I  find  that  they  are  the  hunting  set, 
and  come  in  with  pea-coats  over  their  pinks,  and  trousers  over 
their  leather  breeches  and  top-boots;  which  accounts  for  it. 
There  are  a  few  others  who  seem  very  devout,  and  bow  a  good 
deal,  and  turn  towards  the  altar  at  different  parts  of  the  ser- 
vice. These  are  of  the  Oxford  High-church  school,  I  believe  ; 
but  I  shall  soon  find  out  more  about  them.  On  the  whole  I 
feel  less  at  home,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  at  present  in  the  chapel, 
than  anywhere  else. 

"I  was  very  near  forgetting  a  great  institution  of  the  college, 
which  is  the  buttery-hatch,  just  opposite  the  hall-door.  Here 
abides  the  fat  old  butler  (all  the  servants  at  St.  Ambrose's  are 
portly),  and  serves  out  limited  bread,  butter,  and  cheese,  and 
unlimited  beer  brewed  by  himself,  for  an  hour  in  the  morning, 
at  noon,  and  again  at  supper-time.  Your  scout  always  fetches 
you  a  pint  or  so  on  each  occasion,  in  case  you  should  want  it, 
and  if  you  don't,  it  falls  to  him ;  but  I  can't  say  that  my  fel- 
low gets  much,  for  I  am  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  cannot 
often  resist  the  malt  myself,  coming  up  as  it  does,  fresh  and 
cool,  in  one  of  the  silver  tankards,  of  which  we  seem  to  have 
an  endless  supply. 

"  I  spent  a  day  or  two  in  the  first  week,  before  I  got  shaken 
down  into  my  place  here,  in  going  round  and  seeing  the  other 
colleges,  and  finding  out  what  great  men  had  been  at  each 
(one  got  »  taste  for  that  sort  of  work  from  the  Doctor,  and  I'd 
nothing  else  to  do).  "Well,  I  never  was  more  interested ; 
fancy  ferreting  out  Wycliffe,  the  Black  Prince,  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  Pym,  Hampden,  Laud,  Ireton,  Butler,  and  Addison, 
in  one  afternoon.  I  walked  about  two  inches  taller  in  my 
trencher  cap  after  it.  Perhaps  I  may  be  going  to  make 
dear  friends  with  some  fellow  who  will  change  the  history  of 
England  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  There  must  have  been  fresh- 
men once  who  were  chums  of  Wycliffe  of  Queen's,  or  Raleigh 
of  Oriel.  I  mooned  up  and  down  the  High-street,  staring  at 
all  the  young  faces  in  caps,  and  wondering  which  of  them 
would,  turn  out  great  generals,  or  statesmen,  or  poets.  ^  Some 


14  TOJ/  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

of  them  will,  of  course,  for  there  must  be  a  do^en  at  least,  1 
should  think,  in  every  generation  of  undergraduates,  who  will 
have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  the  ruling  and  guiding  of  the 
British  nation  before  they  die. 

"  But,  after  all,  the  river  is  the  feature  of  Oxford,  to  my 
mind  ;  a  glorious  stream,  not  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  col- 
leges, broad  enough  in  most  places  for  three  boats  to  vo\r 
abreast.  I  expect  I  will  take  to  boating  furiously ;  I  have 
been  down  the  river  three  or  four  times  already  with  some 
other  freshmen,  and  it  is  glorious  exercise ;  that  I  can  see, 
though  we  bungle  and  cut  crabs  desperately  at  present. 

"Here's  a  long  yarn  I'm  spinning  for  you;  and  I  dare  say 
after  all  you'll  say  it  tells  you  nothing,  and  you'd  rather 
"nave  twenty  lines  about  the  men,  and  what  they're  thinking 
about  and  the  meaning,  and  the  inner  life  of  the  place,  and 
all  that.  Patience,  patience !  I  don't  know  anything  about 
it  myself  yet,  and  have  had  only  time  to  look  at  the  shell, 
which  is  a  very  handsome  and  stately  affair ;  you  shall  have 
the  kernel,  if  I  ever  get  at  it,  in  due  time. 

"And  now  write  me  a  long  letter  directly,  and  tell  me  about 
the  Doctor,  and  who  are  in  the  Sixth,  and  how  the  house  goes 
on,  and  what  sort  of  an  eleven  there'll  be,  and  what  you  are 
doing  and  thinking  about.  Come  up  here  and  try  fora  scholar- 
ship ;  I'll  take  you  in  and  show  you  the  lions.  Remember  me 
to  old  friends. — Ever  yours  affectionately,  T.  B." 


JHAPTER  II. 

A  BOW  ON  THE  EIVER. 

WITHIN  a  day  or  two  of  the  penning  of  this  celebrated 
epistle,  which  created  quite  a  sensation  in  the  sixth-form  roorq 
•is  it  went  the  round  after  tea,  Tom  realized  one  of  the  objests 
of  his  young  Oxford  ambition,  and  succeeded  in  embarking  on 
the  river  in  a  skiff  by  himself,  with  such  results  as  are  now  de- 
scribed. He  had  already  been  down  several  times  in  pair-oar 
and  four-oar  boats,  with  an  old  oar  to  pull  stroke,  and  another  to 
steer  and  coach  the  young  idea,  but  he  was  not  satisfied  with 
these  essays.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  was  such  a  bad  oar  as 
the  old  hands  made  him  out  to  be,  and  thought  that  it  must  be 
the  fault  of  the  other  freshmen  who  were  learning  with  him  that 
the  boat  made  so  little  way  and  rolled  so  much.  He  had  been 
such  a  proficient  in  all  the  Rugby  games,  that  he  couldn't 


A  EOW  ON  1UE  RIVER.  15 

realize  the  fact  of  his  unreadiness  in  a  boat.  Pulling  looked 
a  simple  thing  enough — much  easier  than  tennis ;  and  he  had 
made  a  capital  start  at  the  latter  game,  and  been  highly  com- 
plimented by  the  marker  after  his  first  hour  in  the  little  court. 
He  forgot  that  cricket  and  lives  are  capital  training  for  tennis, 
but  that  rowing  is  a  specialty,  of  the  rudiments  of  which  he 
was  wholly  ignorant.  And  so,  in  full  confidence  that  if  he 
could  only  have  a  turn  or  two  alone,  he  should  not  only  satis- 
fy himself,  but  everybody  else,  that  be  was  a  heaven-born  oar, 
he  refused  all  offers  of  companionship,  and  started  on  the 
afternoon  of  a  fine  February  day  down  to  the  boats  for  his  trial 
trip.  He  had  watched  his  regular  companions  well  out  of 
college,  and  gave  (hem  enough  start  to  make  sure  that  they 
would  be  off  before  he  himself  could  arrive  at  St.  Ambrose's 
dressing  room  at  Hall's,  and  chuckled,  as  he -came  within  sight 
of  the  river,  to  see  the  freshmen's  boat  in  which  he  generally 
performed,  go  plunging  away  past  the  University  barge,  keep- 
ing three  different  times  with  four  oars,  and  otherwise  demean- 
ing itself  so  as  to  become  an  object  of  mirthful  admiration  to 
all  beholders. 

Tom  was  punted  across  to  Hall's  in  a  state  of  great  content, 
which  increased  when,  in  answer  to  his  casual  inquiry,  the  man- 
aging man  informed  him  that  not  a  man  of  his  college  was 
about  the  place.  So  he  ordered  a  skiff  with  as  much  dignity 
and  coolness  as  he  could  command,  and  hastened  up  stairs  to 
dress.  He  appeared  again,  carrying  his  boating  coat  and  cap. 
They  were  quite  new,  so  he  would  not  wear  them;  nothing 
about  him  should  betray  the  freshman  on  this  day  if  he  could 
help  it. 

"  Is  my  skiff  ready  ?  " 

"  All  right,  sir;  this  way,  sir  ;  "  said  the  manager,  conducting 
him  to  a  good,  safe-looking  craft.  "  Any  gentleman  gc  ing  to 
steer,  sir  ?  " 

" No"  said  Tom,  superciliously ;  "You  may  take  out  the 
rudder." 

"Going  quite  alone,  sir?  Better  take  one  of  our  boys — find 
you  a  very  light  one.  Here,  Bill ! " — and  he  turned  to  sum- 
mon a  juvenile  waterman  to  take  charge  of  our  hero. 

"  Take  out  the  rudder,  do  you  hear  ? "  interrupted  Tom.  "  I 
won't  have  a  steerer." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  please,"  said  the  manager,  proceeding  to 
remove  the  degrading  appendage.  "  The  river's  rather  high, 
please  to  remember,  sir.  You  must  mind  the  mill-stream  at 
Iffley  Lock.  I  suppose  you  can  swim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  said  Tom,  settling  himself  on  his  cushion. 
"  Now.  shove  her  off." 


16  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD, 

The  next  moment  he  was  well  out  in  the  stream,  and  left  to 
his  own  resources.  He  got  his  sculls  out  successfully  enough, 
and,  though  feeling  by  no  means  easy  on  his  seat,  proceeded  to 
pull  very  deliberately  past  the  barges,  stopping  his  sculls  in  the 
air  to  feather  accurately,  in  the  hopes  of  deceiving  spectators 
into  the  belief  that  he  was  an  old  hand  just  going  out  for  a 
gentle  paddle.  The  manager  watched  him  for  a  minute,  and 
turned  to  his  work  with  an  aspiration  that  he  might  not  come  to 
grief. 

But  no  thought  of  grief  was  on  Tom's  mind  as  he  dropped 
gently  down,  impatient  for  the  time  when  he  should  pass  the 
mount  of  the  Cherwell,  and  so,  having  no  longer  critical  eyes 
to  fear,  might  put  out  his  whole  strength,  and  give  himself  at 
least  if  not  the  world,  assurance  of  a  waterman. 

The  day  was  a  very  fine  one,  a  bright  sun  shining,  and  a  nice 
fresh  breeze  blowing  aci'oss  the  stream,  but  not  enough  to 
ruffle  the  water  seriously.  Some  heavy  storms  up  Gloucester- 
shire way  had  cleared  the  air,  and  swollen  the  stream  at  the 
same  time ;  in  fact,  the  river  was  as  full  as  it  could  be  without 
overflowing  its  banks — a  state  in  which,  of  all  others,  it  is  the 
least  safe  for  boating  experiments.  Fortunately,  in  those  days 
there  were  no  outriggers.  Even  the  racing  skiffs  were  com- 
paratively safe  craft,  and  would  be  now  characterized  as  tubs; 
while  the  real  tubs  (in  one  of  the  safest  of  which  the  prudent 
manager  bad  embarked  our  hero)  were  of  such  build  that  it  re- 
quired considerable  ingenuity  actually  to  upset  them. 

If  any  ordinary  amount  of  bungling  could  have  done  it, 
Tom's  voyage  would  have  terminated  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  Cherwell.  While  he  had  been  sitting  quiet  and  merely 
paddling,  and  almost  letting  the  stream  carry  him  down,  the 
boat  had  trimmed  well  enough  ;  but  now,  taking  a  long  breath, 
he  leaned  forward,  and  dug  his  sculls  into  the  water,  pulling 
them  through  with  all  his  strength.  The  consequence  of  this 
feat  was  that  the  handles  of  the  sculls  came  into  violent  collision 
in  the  middle  of  the  boat,  the  knuckles  of  his  right  hand  were 
barked,  his  left  scull  unshipped,  and  the  head  of  his  skiff 
almost  blown  round  by  the  wind  before  he  could  restore  order 
on  board. 

"Never  mind;  try  again,"  thought  he,  after  the  sensa- 
tion of  disgust  had  passed  off,  and  a  glance  at  the  shore  showed 
him  that  there  were  no  witnesses.  "  Of  course,  I  forgot,  one 
hand  must  go  over  the  other.  It  might  have  happened  to  any 
one.  Let  me  see,  which  hand  shall  I  keep  uppermost :  the  left, 
that's  the  weakest."  And  away  he  went  again,  keeping  his 
newly-acquired  fact  painfully  in  mind,  and  so  avoiding  further 


A  ROW  ON  THE  RIVER.  17 

collision  amidships  for  four  or  five  strokes.  But,  as  in  other 
sciences,  the  giving  of  undue  prominence  to  one  fact  brings 
others  inexorably  on  the  head  of  the  student  to  avenge  his 
neglect  of  them,  so  it  happened  with  Tom  in  his  practical 
study  of  the  science  of  rowing,  that  by  thinking  of  the  hands  he 
forgot  his  seat,  and  the  necessity  of  trimming  properly. 
Whereupon  the  old  tub  began  to  rock  fearfully,  and  the  next 
moment  he  missed  the  water  altogether  with  his  right  scull, 
and  subsided  backwards,  not  without  struggles,  into  the  bottom 
of  the  boat ;  while  the  half  stroke  which  he  had  pulled  with  his 
left  hand  sent  her  head  well  into  the  bank. 

Tom  picked  himself  up,  and  settled  himself  on  his  bench 
again,  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  as  the  truth  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  that  pulling,  especially  sculling,  does  not,  like  read- 
ing and  writing,  come  by  nature.  However,  he  addressed  him- 
self manfully  to  his  task ;  savage  indeed,  and  longing  to 
drive  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  tub,  but  as  resolved  as 
ever  to  get  to  Sandford  and  back  before  hall  time,  or  perish  in 
the  attempt. 

He  shoved  himself  off  the  bank,  and,  warned  by  his  last 
mishap,  got  out  into  mid-stream,  and  there,  moderating  his 
ardor,  and  contenting  himself  with  a  slow  and  steady  stroke, 
was  progressing  satisfactorily,  and  beginning  to  recover  his 
temper,  when  a  loud  shout  startled  him ;  and,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  imminent  risk  of  an  upset,  he  beheld  the  fast 
sailor  the  Dart,  close  hauled  on  a  wind,  and  almost  aboard  of 
him.  Utterly  ignorant  of  what  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  he 
held  on  his  course,  and  passed  close  under  the  bows  of  the 
miniature  cutter,  the  steersman  having  jammed  his  helm  hard 
down,  shaking  her  in  the  wind,  to  prevent  running  over  the 
skiff,  and  solacing  himself  with  pouring  maledictions  on  Tom 
and  his  craft,  in  which  the  man  who  had  hold  of  the  sheets,  and 
the  third,  who  was  lounging  in  the  bows,  heartily  joined. 
Tom  was  out  of  ear-shot  before  he  had  collected  vituperation 
enough  to  hurl  back  at  them,  and  was,  moreover,  already  in  the 
difficult  navigation  of  the  Gut,  where,  notwithstanding  all  his 
efforts,  he  again  ran  aground ;  but,  with  this  exception,  he 
arrived  without  other  mishap  at  Iffley,  where  he  lay  on  his 
sculls  with  much  satisfaction,  and  shouted,  "  Lock — lock !  " 

The  lock-keeper  appeared  to  the  summons,  but  instead  of 
opening  the  gates  seized  a  long  boat-hook,  and  rushed  towards 
our  hero,  calling  upon  him  to  mind  the  mill-stream,  and  pull 
his  right-hand  scull ;  notwithstanding  which  warning,  Tom  was 
within  an  ace  of  drifting  past  the  entrance  to  the  lock,  in  which 
case  assuredly  his  boat,  if  not  he,  had  never  returned  whole. 


IS  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

However,  the  lock-keeper  managed  to  catch  the  stern  of  his 
skiff  with  the  boat-hook,  and  drag  him  back  into  the  proper 
channel,  and  then  opened  the  lock-gates  for  him.  Tom  con- 
gratulated himself  as  he  entered  the  lock  that  there  were  no 
other  boats  going  through  with  him;  but  his  evil  star  was  in 
the  ascendant,  and  all  things,  animate  and  inanimate,  seemed 
jo  be  leagued  together  to  humiliate  him.  As  the  water  began 
io  fall  rapidly,  he  lost  his  hold  of  the  chain,  and  the  tub  in- 
stantly drifted  across  the  lock,  and  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
sticking  and  breaking  her  back,  when  the  lock-keeper  again 
came  to  the  rescue  with  his  boat-hook ;  and,  guessing  the  state 
of  the  case,  did  not  quit  him  until  he  had  safely  shoved  him 
and  his  boat  well  out  into  the  pool  below,  with  an  exhortation 
to  mind  and  go  outside  of  the  barge  which  was  coming  up. 

Tom  started  on  the  latter  half  of  his  outward  voyage  with 
the  sort  of  look  which  Cato  must  have  worn  when  he  elected 
the  losing  side,  and  all  the  gods  went  over  to  the  winning  one. 
But  his  previous  struggles  had  not  been  thrown  away,  and  he 
managed  to  keep  the  right  side  of  the  barge,  turn  the  corner 
without  going  aground,  and  zigzag  down  Keunington  reach, 
slowly  indeed,  and  with  much  labor,  but  at  any  rate  safely. 
Rejoicing  in  this  feat,  he  stopped  at  the  island,  and  recreated 
himself  with  a  glass  of  beer,  looking  now  hopefully  towards 
Sandford,  which  lay  within  easy  distance,  now  upwards  again 
along  the  reach  which  he  had  just  overcome,  and  solacing  him- 
self  with  the  remembrance  of  a  dictum,  which  he  had  heard 
from  a  great  authority,  that  it  was  always  easier  to  steer  up 
stream  than  down,  from  which  he  argued  that  the  worst  part 
of  his  trial  trip  was  now  over. 

Presently  he  saw  a  skiff  turn  the  corner  at  the  top  of  the 
Kennington  reach,  and,  resolving  in  his  mind  to  get  to  Sand- 
ford  before  the  new-comer,  paid  for  his  beer,  and  betook  him- 
self again  to  his  tub.  He  got  pretty  well  off,  and,  the  island 
shutting  out  his  unconscious  rival  from  his  view,  worked  away 
at  first  under  the  pleasing  delusion  that  he  was  holding  his 
own.  But  he  was  soon  undeceived,  for  in  monstrously  short 
time  the  pursuing  skiff  showed  around  the  corner,  and  bore 
down  on  him.  He  never  relaxed  his  efforts,  but  could  not 
help  watching  the  enemy  as  he  came  up  with  him  hand  over 
hand,  and  envying  the  perfect  ease  with  which  he  seemed  to 
be  pulling  his  long  steady  stroke  and  the  precision  with  which 
he  steered,  scarcely  ever  casting  a  look  over  his  shoulder.  He 
was  hugging  the  Berkshire  side  himself,  as  the  other  skiff 
passed  him,  and  thought  be  heard  the  sculler  say  something 
about  keeping  out  and  minding  tbe  small  lasher ;  but  the  noise 


A  ROW  ON  THE  RIVER.  19 

of  the  waters  and  his  own  desperate  efforts  prevented  his 
heeding,  or,  indeed,  hearing  the  warning  plainly.  In  another 
minute,  however,  he  heard  plainly  enough  most  energetie 
shouts  behind  him  and,  turning  his  head  over  his  right  shoulder, 
saw  the  man  who  had  just  passed  him  backing  his  skiff  rapidly 
up  stream  towards  him.  The  next  nrjment  he  felt  the  bows  of 
his  boat  turn  suddenly  to  the  left ;  the  old  tub  grounded  for  a  mo» 
ment  and  then,  turning  over  on  her  side,  shot  him  out  on  to 
the  planking  of  the  steep  descent  into  the  small  lasher.  He 
grasped  at  the  boards,  but  they  were  too  slippery  to  hold,  and 
the  rush  of  water  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  rolling  him  over 
and  over  like  a  piece  of  driftwood,  plunged  him  into  the  pond 
below. 

After  the  first  moment  of  astonishment  and  fright  was  over, 
Tom  left  himself  to  the  stream,  holding  his  breath  hard, 
and  paddling  gently  with  his  hands,  feeling  sure  that,  if  he 
could  only  hold  on,  he  should  come  to  the  surface  sooner  or 
later ;  which  accordingly  happened  after  a  somewhat  lengthy 
submersion. 

His  first  impulse  on  rising  to  the  surface,  after  catching  his 
breath,  was  to  strike  out  for  the  shore,  but,  in  the  act  of  doing 
so,  he  caught  sight  of  the  other  skiff  coming  stern  foremost 
down  the  descent  after  him,  and  he  trod  the  water  and  drew 
in  his  breath  to  watch.  Down  she  came,  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  into  the  tumult  below ;  the  sculler  sitting  upright,  and 
holding  his  sculls  steadily  in  the  water.  For  a  moment  she 
seemed  to  be  going  under,  but  righted  herself,  and  glided 
swiftly  into  the  still  water ;  and  then  the  sculler  cast  a  hasty 
and  anxious  glance  around,  till  his  eyes  rested  on  our  hero's 
half-drowned  head. 

"Oh,  there  you  are!"  he  said,  looking  much  relieved;  "all 
right,  I  hope.  Not  hurt,  eh  ?  " 

"No,  thankee;  all  right,  I  believe,"  answered  Tom.  "  WliAl 
shall  I  do?" 

"Swirn  ashore;  I'll  look  after  your  boat."  So  Tom  took 
the  advice,  swam  ashore,  and  there  stood  dripping  and  watch- 
ing the  other  as  he  righted  the  old  tub,  which  was  floating 
quietly  bottom  upwards,  little  the  worse  for  the  mishap,  and 
no  doubt,  if  boats  can  wish,  earnestly  desiring  in  her  wooden 
mind  to  be  allowed  to  go  quietly  to  pieces  then  and  there, 
sooner  than  be  rescued  to  be  again  entrusted  to  t\ie  guidance 
of  freshmen. 

The  tub  having  been  brought  to  the  bank,  the  stranger 
started  again,  arid  collected  the  sculls  and  bottom  boards, 
which  were  floating  about  herp  ->-nd  there  in  the  pool,  and  also 


20  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

succeeded  in  making  salvage  of  Tom's  coat,  the  pockets  of 
which  held  his  watch,  purse,  and  cigar  case.  These  he  brought 
to  the  bank,  and  delivering  them  over,  inquired  whether  there 
was  anything  else  to  look  after. 

"Thank  you,  no ;  nothing  but  my  cap.  Nevermind  it.  It's 
luck  enough  not  to  have  lost  the  coat,"  said  Tom,  holding  up 
the  dripping  garment  to  let  the  water  run  out  of  the  arms  and 
pocket-holes,  and  then  wringing  it  as  well  as  he  could.  "  At 
any  rate,"  thought  he,  "  I  needn't  be  afraid  of  its  looking  too 
new  any  more." 

The  stranger  put  off  again,  and  made  one  more  round, 
searching  for  the  cap  and  anything  else  which  he  might  have 
overlooked,  but  without  success.  While  he  was  doing  so, 
Tom  had  time  to  look  him  well  over,  and  see  what  sort  of  a, 
man  had  come  to  his  rescue.  He  hardly  knew  at  the  time  the 
full  extent  of  his  obligation — at  least  if  this  sort  of  obliga- 
tion is  to  be  reckoned  not  so  much  by  the  service  actually 
rendered,  as  by  the  risk  encountered  to  be  able  to  ren- 
der it.  There  were  probably  not  three  men  in  the  Uni- 
versity who  would  have  dared  to  shoot  the  lasher  in  a  skiff 
in  its  then  state,  for  it  was  in  those  times  a  really  danger- 
ous place ;  and  Tom  himself  had  an  extraordinary  escape, 
for,  as  Miller,  the  St.  Ambrose  coxswain,  remarked  on 
hearing  the  story,  "  No  one  who  wasn't  born  to  be  hung  could 
have  rolled  down  it  without  knocking  his  head  against  some- 
thing hard,  and  going  down  like  lead  when  he  got  to  the  bot- 
tom." 

He  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  inspection.  The  other 
man  was  evidently  a  year  or  two  older  than  himself,  his  figure 
was  more  set,  and  he  had  stronger  whiskers  than  are  generally 
grown  at  twenty.  He  was  somewhere  about  five  feet  ten  in 
height,  very  deep-chested,  and  with  long  powerful  arms  and 
hands.  There  was  no  denying,  however,  that  at  the  first 
glance  he  was  an  ugly  man  ;  he  was  marked  with  small-pox, 
had  large  features,  high  cheek-bones,  deeply  set  eyes,  and  a 
very  long  chin :  and  had  got  the  trick  which  many  under- 
hung men  have  of  compressing  his  upper  lip.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  that  in  his  face  which  hit  Tom's  fancy,  and  made 
him  anxious  to  know  his  rescuer  better.  He  had  an  instinct 
that  he  should  get  good  out  of  him.  So  he  was  very  glad 
when  the  search  was  ended,  and  the  stranger  came  to  the 
bank,  shipped  his  sculls,  and  jumped  out  with  the  painter  of 
his  skiff  in  his  hand,  which  he  proceeded  to  fasten  to  an  old 
stump,  while  he  remarked — 
"  I'm  afraid  the  eap's  lost." 


A  HOW  ON  THE  RIVES.  21 

"It  doesn't  matter  the  least.  Thank  you  for  coming  to  help 
me ;  it  was  very  kind  indeed,  and  more  than  I  expected. 
Don't  they  say  that  one  Oxford  man  will  never  save  another 
from  drowning  unless  they  have  been  introduced?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other ;  "  are  you  sure  you're . 
not  hurt?" 

"  Yes,  quite,"  said  Tom,  foiled  in  what  he  considered  an 
artful  plan  to  get  the  stranger  to  introduce  himself. 

"  Then  we're  very  well  out  of  it,"  said  the  other,  looking  at 
the  steep  descent  into  the  lasher,  and  the  rolling,  tumbling  rush 
of  the  water  below. 

"  Indeed  we  are,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  how  in  the  world  did 
you  manage  not  to  upset?" 

"  I  hardly  know  myself — I  have  shipped  a  good  deal  of 
water,  you  see.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  jumped  out  on  the 
bank  and  come  across  to  you,  leaving  my  skiff  in  the  river,  for 
if  I  had  upset  I  couldn't  have  helped  you  much.  However,  I 
followed  my  instinct,  which  was  to  come  the  quickest  way.  I 
thought,  too,  that  if  I  could  manage  to  get  down  in  the  boat  I 
should  be  of  more  use.  I  am  very  glad  I  did  it,"  he  added 
after  a  moment's  pause ;  "  I'm  really  proud  of  having  come 
down  that  place." 

"  So  ain't  I,"  said  Tom,  with  a  laugh,  in  which  the  other 
joined. 

"  But  now  you're  getting  chilled,"  and  he  turned  from  the 
lasher  and  looked  at  Tom's  chattering  jaws. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.     I'm  used  to  being  wet." 

"But  you  may  just  as  well  be  comfortable  if  you  can. 
Here's  this  rough  jersey  which  I  use  instead  of  a  coat ;  pull 
off  that  wet  cotton  affair,  and  put  it  on,  and  then  we'll  get  to 
work,  for  we  have  plenty  to  do." 

After  a  little  persuasion  Tom  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  got 
into  the  great  woolen  garment,  which  was  very  comforting; 
and  then  the  two  set  about  getting  their  skiffs  back  into  the 
main  stream.  This  was  comparatively  easy  as  to  the  lighter 
skiff,  which  was  soon  baled  out  and  hauled  by  main  force  on 
to  the  bank,  carried  across  and  launched  again,  The  tub  gave 
them  much  more  trouble,  for  she  was  quite  full  of  water  and 
very  heavy;  but  after  twenty  minutes  or  so  of  hard  work, 
during  which  the  mutual  respect  of  the  laborers  for  the  strength 
and  willingness  of  each  other  was  much  increased,  she  also  lay 
in  the  main  stream,  leaking  considerably,  but  otherwise  not 
much  the  worse  for  her  adventure. 

"  Now  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  said  the  stranger.  "  I 
don't  think  you  can  pull  home  in  her.  __  One  doesn't  know  how 


22  TOM  BROWN  A1  OXFORD. 

much  she  may  be  damaged.     She  may  sink  in  the  lock,  or  play 
any  prank." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do  with  her?" 

"  Oh,-  you  can  leave  her  at  Sandford  and  walk  up,  and  send 
one  of  Hall's  boys  for  her.  Or,  if  you  like,  I  will  tow  her  up 
behind  my  skiff." 

"  Won't  your  skiff  cany  two  ?" 

"  Yes ;  if  you  like  to  come  I'll  take  you,  but  yon  must  sit 
very  quiet." 

"  Can't  we  go  down  to  Sandford  first  and  have  a  glass  oi! 
ale  ?  What  time  is  it  ? — the  water  has  stopped  my  watch.'' 

"  A  quarter-past  three.  I  have  about  twenty  minutes  to  spare." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  will  you  let  me  pull 
your  skiff  down  to  Sandford  ?  I  resolved  to  pull  to  Sandford 
to-day,  and  don't  like  to  give  it  up." 

"By  all  means,  if  you  like,"  said  the  other,  with  a  smile; 
"  jump  in,  and  I'll  walk  along  the  bank." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  hurrying  into  the  skiff,  in  which 
he  completed  the  remaining  quarter  of  a  mile,  while  the  owner 
walked  by  the  side,  watching  him. 

They  met  on  the  bank  at  the  little  inn  by  Sandford  lock, 
and  had  a  glass  of  ale,  over  which  Tom  confessed  that  it  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  navigated  a  skiff  by  himself,  and 
gave  a  detailed  account  of  his  adventures,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  his  companion.  And  by  the  time  they  rose  to  go,  it 
was  settled,  at  Tom's  earnest  request,  that  he  should  pull  the 
sound  skiff  up,  while  his  companion  sat  in  the  stern  and 
coached  him.  The  other  consented  very  kindly,  merely  stipulat- 
ing that  he  himself  should  take  the  sculls,  if  it  should  prove 
that  Tom  could  not  pull  them  up  in  time  for  hall  dinner.  So 
they  started,  and  took  the  tub  in  tow  when  they  came  up  to  it. 
Tom  got  on  famously  under  his  new  tutor,  who  taught  him  to 
get  forward,  and  open  his  knees  properly,  and  throw  his  weight 
on  to  the  sculls  at  the  beginning  of  the  stroke.  He  managed 
even  to  get  into  Iffley  lock  on  the  way  up  without  fouling  the 
gates,  and  was  then  and  there  complimented  on  his  progress. 
Whereupon,  as  they  sat,  while  the  lock  filled,  Tom  poured  out 
his  thanks  to  his  tutor  for  his  instruction,  which  had  been  given 
so  judiciously  jhat,  while  he  was  conscious  of  improving  at 
every  stroke,  he  did  not  feel  that  the  other  was  asserting  any 
superiority  over  him  ;  and  so,  though  he  was  really  more  hum- 
ble than  at  the  most  disastrous  period  of  his  downward  voyage 
instead  of  being  brimful  of  wrath  and  indignntion,  was  getting 
into  a  better  temper  every  minute. 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  some  of  our  instructors  in  more  im- 


A  BOW  ON  THE  E1VEE.  23 

portant  matters  than  sculling  will  not  take  a  leaf  out  of  the 
same  book.  Of  course,  it  is  more  satisfactory  to  one's  own 
self-love,  to  make  every  one  who  comes  to  one  to  learn,  feel 
that  he  is  a  fool,  and  we  wise  men ;  but  if  our  object  is  to  teach 
well  and  usefully  what  we  know  ourselves  there  cannot  be  a 
worse  method.  No  man,  however,  is  likely  to  adopt  it,  so  long 
as  he  is  conscious  that  he  has  anything  himself  to  learn  from 
his  pupils;  and  as  soon  as  he  has  arrived  at  the  conviction  that 
they  can  teach  him  nothing — that  it  is  henceforth  to  be  all  give 
and  no  take — the  sooner  he  throws  up  his  office  of  teacher,  the 
better  it  will  be  for  himself,  his  pupils,  and  his  country,  whose 
sons  he  is  misguiding. 

On  their  way  up,  so  intent  were  they  on  their  own  work  that 
it  was  not  until  shouts  of  "  Halloo,  Brown !  how  did  you  get 
there?  Why,  you  said  you  were  not  going  down  to-day," 
greeted  them  just  above  the  Gut,  that  they  were  aware  of  the 
presence  of  the  freshmen's  four-oar  of  St.  Ambrose  College, 
which  had  with  some  trouble  succeeded  in  overtaking  them. 

"  I  said  I  wasn't  going  down  with  yow,"  shouted  Tom,  grind- 
ing away  harder  than  ever,  that  they  might  witness  and 
wonder  at  his  prowess. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say!  Whose  skiff  are  you  towing  up?  I  be- 
lieve you've  been  upset." 

Tom  made  no  reply,  and  the  four-oar  floundered  on  ahead. 

"Are  you  at  St.  Ambrose's?"  asked  his  sitter,  after  a 
minute. 

"Yes;  that's  my  treadmill,  that  four-oar.  I've  been  down 
in  it  almost  every  day  since  I  came  up,  and  very  poor  fun  it 
is.  So  I  thought  to-day  I  would  go  on  my  own  hook,  and  see 
if  I  couldn't  make  a  better  hand  of  it.  And  I  have  too,  I 
know,  thanks  to  you." 

The  other  made  no  remark,  but  a  little  shade  came  over  his 
face.  He  had  had  no  chance  of  making  out  Tom's  college,  as  the 
new  cap  which  would  have  betrayed  him  had  disappeared  in 
the  lasher.  He  himself  wore  a  glazed  straw  hat,  which  wr.s  of 
no  college ;  so  that  up  to  this  time  neither  of  them  had  known 
to  what  college  the  other  belonged. 

When  they  landed  at  Hall's,  Tom  was  at  once  involved  in  a 
wrangle  with  the  manager  as  to  the  amount  of  damage  done  to 
the  tub  ;  which  the  latter  refused  to  assess  before  he  knew  what 
had  happened  to  it ;  while  our  hero  vigorously  and  with  rea- 
son maintained,  that  if  he  knew  his  business  it  could  not  mat- 
ter what  had  happened  to  the  boat.  There  she  was,  and  he 
must  say  whether  she  was  better  or  worse,  or  how  much  worse 
than  when  she  started.  In  the  middle  of  which  dialogue  his 


24  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

new  acquaintance,  touching  his  arm,  said,  "  You  can  leave  my 
jersey  with  your  own  things ;  I  shall  get  it  to-morrow,"  amd 
then  disappeared. 

Tom,  when  he  had  come  to  terms  with  his  adversary,  ran  up- 
gtairs,  expecting  to  find  the  other,  and  meaning  to  tell  his  name, 
and  find  out  who  it  was  that  had  played  the  good  Samaritan  by 
him.  He  was  much  annoyed  when  he  found  the  coast  clear, 
and  dressed  in  a  grumbling  humor.  "  I  wonder  why  he  should 
have  gone  off  so  quick.  He  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  and 
•Talked  up  with  me,"  thought  he.  "  Let  me  see,  though ;  didn't 
lie  say  I  was  to  leave  his  jersey  in  our  room,  with  my  own  things  ? 
Why,  perhaps  he  is  a  St.  Ambrose  man  himself.  But  then  he 
would  have  told  me  so,  surely.  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen 
his  face  in  chapel  or  hall ;  but  then  there  are  such  a  lot  of  new 
faces,  and  he  may  not  sit  near  me.  However,  I  mean  to  find 
him  out  before  long,  whoever  he  may  be."  With  which  resolve 
Tom  crossed  in  the  punt  into  Christ's  Church  meadow,  and 
strolled  college-wards,  feeling  that  he  had  had  a  good  hard  after- 
noon's exercise,  and  was  much  the  better  for  it.  He  might 
have  satisfied  his  curiosity  at  once  by  simply  asking  the  mana- 
ger who  it  was  that  had  arrived  with  him ;  and  this  occurred 
to  him  before  he  got  home,  whereat  he  felt  satisfied,  but  would 
not  go  back  then,  as  it  was  so  near  halJ  time.  He  would  be 
sure  to  remember  it  the  first  thing  to-morrow. 

As  it  happened,  however,  he  had  not  so  long  to  wait  for  the 
information  which  he  needed  ;  for  scarcely  had  he  sat  down  in 
hall  and  ordered  his  dinner,  when  he  caught  sight  of  his  boating 
acquaintance,  who  walked  in  habited  in  a  gown  which  Tom 
took  for  a  scholar's.  He  took  his  seat  at  a  little  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall,  near  the  bachelors'  table,  but  quite  away 
from  the  rest  of  the  undergraduates,  at  which  sat  four  or  five 
other  men  in  similar  gowns.  He  either  did  not  or  would  not 
notice  the  looks  of  recognition  which  Tom  kept  firing  at  him 
until  he  had  taken  his  seat. 

"  Who  is  that  man  that  has  just  come  in,  do  you  know?  "  said 
Tom  to  his  next  neighbor,  a  second-term  man. 

"  Which  ?  "  said  the  other,  looking  up. 

"That  one  over  at  the  little  table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
with  the  dark  whiskers.  There,  he  has  just  turned  rather  from 
us,  and  put  his  arm  on  the  table." 

"  Oh,  his  name  is  Hardy." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"No;  I  don't  think  anybody  does.  They  say  he  is  a  clever 
fellow,  but  a  very  queer  one." 

"  Why  does  he  sit  at  that  table  1 


A  BREAKFAST  Al  DRYSDALE'S.  25 

"  He  is  one  of  our  servitors,"  said  the  other ;  "  they  all  sit 
there  together." 

"  Oh,  said  Tom,  not  much  the  wiser  for  the  information,  but 
resolved  to  waylay  Hardy  as  soon  as  the  hall  was  over,  and  high- 
ly delighted  to  find  that  they  were  after  all  of  the  same  college ; 
for  he  had  already  begun  to  find  out,  that  however  friendly  you 
may  be  with  out-college  men,  you  must  live  chiefly  with  those 
©f  your  own.  But  now  his  scout  brought  his  dinner,  and  he 
fell  to  with  marvelous  appetite  on  his  ample  commons. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BBEAKFAST   AT   DRYSDALE*S. 

No  man  in  St.  Ambrose  College  gave  such  breakfasts  as  Drys- 
dale.  I  don't  mean  the  great  heavy  spreads  for  thirty  or  forty, 
which  came  once  or  twice  a  term,  when  everything  was  supplied 
out  of  the  college  kitchen,  and  you  had  to  ask  leave  of  the  Dean 
before  you  could  have  it  at  all.  In  these  ponderous  feasts  the 
most  hum-drum  of  the  undergraduate  kind  might  rival  the 
most  artistic,  if  he  could  only  pay  his  battel-bill,  or  get  credit 
with  the  cook.  But  the  daily  morning  meal,  when  even  gentle- 
men-commoners were  limited  to  two  hot  dishes  out  of  the 
kitchen,  this  was  Drysdale's  forte.  Ordinary  men  left  the  mat- 
ter in  the  hands  of  scouts,  and  were  content  with  the  ever-recur- 
ring buttered  toast  and  eggs,  with  a  dish  of  broiled  ham,  or 
something  of  the  sort,  and  marmalade  and  bitter  ale  to  finish 
with ;  but  Drysdale  was  not  an  ordinary  man,  as  you  felt  in  a 
moment  when  you  went  to  breakfast  with  him  for  the  first  time. 

The  staircase  on  which  he  lived  was  inhabited,  except  in  the 
garrets,  by  men  in  the  fast  set,  and  he  and  three  others,  who  had 
an  equal  aversion  to  solitary  feeding,  had  established  a  breakfast- 
club,  in  which,  thanks  to  Drysdale's  genius,  real  scientific  gas- 
tronomy was  cultivated.  Every  morning  the  boy  from  the 
Wiers  arrived  with  freshly  caught  gudgeon,  and  now  and  then 
an  eel  or  trout,  which  the  scouts  on  the  staircase  had  learnt  to  fry 
delicately  in  oil.  Fresh  watercresses  came  in  the  same  basket, 
and  the  college  kitchen  furnished  a  spitchcocked  chicken,  or 
grilled  turkey's  leg.  In  the  season  there  were  plover's  eggs  ; 
or,  at  the  worst,  there  was  a  dainty  omelette ;  and  a  distant 
baker  famed  for  his  light  rolls  and  high  charges,  sent  in  the  bread 
— the  common  domestic  college  loaf  being  of  course  out  of  the 
question  for  any  one  with  the  slightest  pretensions  to  taste,  and 


26  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

becoming  the  perquisite  of  the  scouts.  Then  there  would  be  a 
deep  Yorkshire  pie,  or  reservoir  of  potted  game,  as  apiece  de 
resistance,  and  three  or  four  sorts  of  preserves;  and  a  large  cool 
tankard  of  cider  or  ale-cup  to  finish  up  with,  or  soda-water  and 
maraschino  for  a  change.  Tea  and  coffee  were  there  indeed,  bnt 
merely  as  a  compliment  to  those  respectable  beverages,  for  they 
were  rarely  touched  by  the  breakfast  eaters  of  No.  3  staircase . 
Pleasant  young  gentlemen  they  were  on  No.  3  staircase ;  I  mean 
the  ground  and  first-floor  men  who  formed  the  breakfast-club, 
for  the  garrets  were  nobodies.  Three  out  of  the  four  were 
gentlemen-commoners,  with  allowances  of  £500  a  year  at  least 
each  ;  and,  as  they  treated  their  allowances  as  pocket-money 
only,  and  went  tick  for  everything  which  the  wide  range  of 
Oxford  tradesmen  would  book,  and  as  they  were  all  in  their  first 
year,  ready  money  was  plenty  and  credit  good  ;  and  they  might 
have  had  potted  hippopotamus  for  breakfast  if  they  had  chosen 
to  order  it,  which  I  verily  believe  they  would  have  done  if  they 
had  thought  of  it. 

Two  out  of  the  three  were  sons  of  rich  men  who  had  made 
their  own  fortunes,  and  sent  their  sons  to  St.  Ambrose's  be- 
cause it  was  very  desirable  that  the  young  gentlemen  should 
make  good  connections.  In  fact,  the  fathers  looked  upon  the 
university  as  a  good  investment,  and  gloried  much  in  hearing 
their  sons  talk  familiarly  in  the  vacations  of  their  dear  friends 
Lord  Harry  This  and  Sir  George  That. 

Drysdale,  the  third  of  the  set,  was  the  heir  of  an  old  as  well  as 
of  a  rich  family,  and  consequently,  having  his  connection  ready 
made  to  his  hand,  cared  little  enough  whom  he  associated  with, 
provided  they  were  pleasant  fellows,  and  gave  him  good  food 
and  wines.  His  whole  idea  at  present  was  to  enjoy  himself  as 
much  as  possible ;  but  he  had  good  manly  stuff  in  him  at  the 
bottom,  and,  had  he  fallen  into  any  but  the  fast  set,  would  have 
made  a  fine  fellow,  and  done  credit  to  himself  and  his  college. 

The  fourth  man  at  the  breakfast-club,  the  Hon.  Piers  St.  Cloud, 
was  in  his  third  year,  and  was  a  very  well-dressed,  well-man- 
nered, and  well-connected  young  man.  His  family  was  poor  and 
his  allowance  small,  but  he  never  wanted  for  anything.  He 
didn't  entertain  much,  certainly,  but  when  he  did,  everything 
was  in  the  best  possible  style.  He  was  very  exclusive,  and  knew 
no  mei\  in  college  out  of  the  fast  set ;  and  of  these  lie  addicted 
himself  chiefly  to  the  society  of  the  rich  freshmen,  for  some- 
how the  men  of  his  own  standing  seemed  a  little  shy  of  him. 
But  with  the  freshmen  he  was  always  hand  and  glove,  lived  in 
their  rooms,  and  used  their  wines,  horses,  and  other  movable 
property  as  his  own.  And  being  a  good  whist  and  billiard  player, 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DRYSDAL&S.  27 

and  not  a  bad  jockey,  he  managed  in  one  way  or  another  to 
make  his  young  friends  pay  well  for  the  honor  of  his  acquaint- 
ance ;  as,  indeed,  why  should  they  not,  at  least  those  of  them 
who  came  to  the  college  to  form  eligible  connections;  for 
nad  not  his  remote  lineal  ancestor  come  over  in  the  same  ship 
with  William  the  Conqueror?  were  not  all  his  relations  about 
the  Court,  as  lords  and  ladies  in  waiting,  white  sticks  or  black 
rods,  in  the  innermost  of  all  possible  circles  of  the  great  world ; 
and  was  there  a  better  coat  of  arms  than  he  bore  in  allBurke's 
Peerage  ? 

Our  hero  had  met  Drysdale  at  a  house  in  the  country  shortly 
before  the  beginning  of  his  first  term,  and  they  had  rather  taken 
to  one  another;  so  as  soon  as  Tom  came  up  Drysdale  had  left  his 
pasteboard  and,  as  he  came  out  of  chapel  one  morning  shortly 
after  his  arrival,  Drysdale's  scout  came  up  to  him  with  an  invita- 
tion to  breakfast.  So  he  went  to  his  own  rooms,  ordered  his  com- 
mons to  be  taken  across  to  No.  3,  and  followed  himself  a  few 
minutes  afterwards.  No  one  was  in  the  rooms  when  he  arrived, 
for  none  of  the  club  had  finished  their  toilettes.  Morning  chapel 
was  not  meant  for,  or  cultivated  by  gentlemen-commoners ;  they 
paid  double  chapel  fees,  in  consideration  of  which,  I  suppose, 
they  were  not  expected  to  attend  so  often  as  the  rest  of  the 
undergraduates ;  at  any  rate,  they  didn't,  and  no  harm  came 
to  them  in  consequence  of  their  absence.  As  Tom  entered,  a 
great  splashing  in  an  inner  room  stopped  for  a  moment,  and 
Drysdale'voice  shouted  out  that  he  was  in  his  tub,  but  would 
be  with  him  in  a  minute.  So  Tom  gave  himself  up  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  rooms,  in  which  his  unfortunate  acquaintance 
dwelt ;  and  very  pleasant  rooms  they  were.  The  large  room,  in 
which  the  breakfast-table  was  laid  for  five,  was  lofty  and  well- 
proportioned,  and  panelled  with  old  oak,  and  the  furniture  was 
handsome  and  solid,  and  in  keeping  with  the  room. 

There  were  four  deep  windows,  high  up  in  the  wall,  with 
cushioned  seats  under  them,  two  looking  into  the  large  quad- 
Bangle,  and  two  into  the  inner  one.  Outside  these  windows, 
Drysdale  had  rigged  up  hanging  gardens,  which  were  kept  full 
of  flowers  by  the  first  nurseryman  in  Oxford  all  the  year  round; 
so  that  even  on  this  February  morning,  the  scent  of  gardania 
and  violets  pervaded  the  room,  and  strove  for  mastery  with  the 
smell  of  stale  tobacco,  which  hung  about  the  curtains  and  sofa8. 
There  was  a  large  glass  in  an  oak  frame  over  the  mantelpiece, 
which  was  loaded  with  choice  pipes  and  cigar  cases,  and  quaint 
receptacles  for  tobacco  ;  and  by  the  side  of  the  glass  hung 
small  carved  oak  frames,  containing  lists  of  the  meets  of  the 
Hey throp,  the  Old  Berkshire,  and  Drake's  hounds,  for  the 


28  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

current  week.  There  was  a  queer  assortment  of  well-framed 
paintings  and  engravings  on  the  walls  ;  some  of  considerable 
merit,  especially  some  water-color  sea-pieces  and  engravings 
from  Laudseer's  pictures,  mingled  with  which  hung  Taglioni 
and  Cerito,  in  short  petticoats  and  impossible  attitudes ;  Phos- 
phorous winning  the  Derby  ;  the  Death  of  Gricaaldi  (the 
famous  steeple-chase  horse — not  poor  old  Joe) ;  an  American 
Trotting  Match,  and  Jem  Belcher  and  Deaf  Burke  in  attitudes 
of  self-defence.  Several  tandem  and  riding  whips,  mounted  in 
heavy  silver,  and  a  double-barrelled  gun,  and  fishing  rods,  oc* 
cupied  one  corner,  and  a  polished  copper  cask,  holding  about 
five  gallons  of  mild  ale,  stood  in  another.  In  short,  there 
was  plenty  of  everything  except  books — the  literature  of  the 
world  being  represented,  so  far  as  Tom  could  make  out  in 
his  short  scrutiny,  by  a  few  well-bound  but  badly  used  vol- 
umes of  classics,  with  the  cribs  thereto  appertaining,  shoved 
away  into  a  cupboard  which  stood  half  open,  and  contained,  be- 
sides, half-emptied  decanters,  and  large  pewters,  and  dog-collars, 
and  packs  of  cards,  and  all  sorts  of  miscellaneous  articles  to 
serve  as  an  antidote. 

Tom  had  scarcely  finished  his  short  survey  when  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  opened,  and  Drysdale  emerged  in  a  loose  jacket 
lined  with  silk,  his  velvet  cap  on  his  head,  and  otherwise  gor- 
geously attired.  He  was  a  pleasant  looking  fellow  of  middle 
size,  with  dark  hair,  and  a  merry  brown  eye,  with  a  twinkle  in 
it,  which  spoke  well  for  his  sense  of  humor;  otherwise,  his 
features  were  rather  plain,  but  he  had  the  look  and  manners  of 
a  thoroughly  well-bred  gentleman. 

His  first  act,  after  nodding  to  Tom,  was  to  seize  on  a  pewter 
and  resort  to  the  cask  in  the  corner,  from  whence  he  drew  a 
pint  or  so  of  the  contents,  having,  as  he  said,  " '  a  whoreson 
longing  for  that  poor  creature,  small  beer.'  We  were  playing 
Van-John  in  Blake's  rooms  till  three  last  night,  and  he  gave 
us  devilled  bones  and  mulled  port.  A  fellow  can't  enjoy  his 
breakfast  after  that  without  something  to  cool  his  coppers." 

Tom  was  as  yet  ignorant  of  what  Van-John  might  be,  so 
held  his  peace,  and  took  a  pull  at  the  beer  which  the  other 
handed  him ;  and  then  the  scout  entered,  and  received  orders  to 
bring  up  Jack  and  the  breakfast  and  not  to  wait  for  any 
one.  In  another  minute,  a  bouncing  and  scrattling  was  heard 
on  the  stairs,  and  a  white  bulldog  rushed  in,  a  gem  in  his  way ; 
for  his  brow  was  broad  and  massive,  and  wrinkled  about  the 
eyes,  his  skin  was  as  fine  as  a  lady's,  and  his  tail  taper  and 
nearly  as  thin  as  a  clay  pipe;  but  he  had  a  way  of  going  '  snuz- 
zling '  about  the  calves  of  strangers,  which  was  not  pleasant  for 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DR TSDALE.  29 

nervous  people.  Tom,  however,  was  used  to  dogs,  and  soon 
became  friends  with  him,  which  evidently  pleased  his  host. 
And  then  the  breakfast  arrived,  all  smoking,  and  with  it 
the  two  other  ingenious  youths  in  velvet  caps  and  for  more 
gorgeous  apparel,  so  far  as  colors  went,  than  Drysdale.  They 
were  introduced  to  Tom,  who  thought  them  somewhat  or- 
dinary and  rather  loud  young  gentlemen.  One  of  them  re- 
monstrated vigorously  against  the  presence  of  that  confounded 
dog,  and  so  Jack  was  sent  to  lie  down  in  a  corner,  and  then  the 
four  fell  to  work  upon  the  breakfast. 

It  was  a  good  lesson  in  gastronomy,  but  the  results  are  scarce- 
ly worth  repeating  here.  It  is  wonderful,  though,  how  you 
feel  drawn  to  a  man  who  feeds  you  well :  and,  as  Tom's  appetite 
got  less,  his  liking  and  respect  for  his  host  undoubtedly  in- 
creased. 

When  they  had  nearly  finished,  in  walked  the  Honorable 
Piers,  a  tall,  slight  man,  two  or  three  years  older  than  the 
rest  of  them;  good  looking,  and  very  well  and  quietly  dressed, 
but  with  a  drawing  up  of  his  nostril,  and  a  drawing  down 
of  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  which  set  Tom  against  him  at 
once.  The  cool,  supercilious  half-nod,  moreover,  to  which  he 
treated  our  hero  when  introduced  to  him,  was  enough  to  spoil 
his  digestion,  and  hurt  his  self-love  a  good  deal  more  than  he 
would  have  liked  to  own. 

"  Here,  Henry,"  said  the  Honorable  Piers  to  the  scout  in 
attendance,  seating  himself,  and  inspecting  the  half-cleared 
dishes;  "  what  is  there  for  my  breakfast?" 

Henry  bustled  about,  and  handed  a  dish  or  two. 

"  I  don't  want  these  cold  things ;  haven't  you  kept  me  any 
gudgeon  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Henry,  "there  was  only  two  dozen  this 
morning,  and  Mr.  Drysdale  told  me  to  cook  them  all." 

"To  be  sure  I  did,"  said  Drysdale.  "Just  half  a  dozen 
for  each  of  us  four :  they  were  first-rate.  If  you  can't  get 
here  at  half-past  nine,  you  won't  get  gudgeon,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"Just  go  and  get  me  a  broil  from  the  kitchen,"  said  the 
Honorable  Piers,  without  deigning  an  answer  to  Drysdale. 

"  Very  sorry,  sir ;  kitchen's  shut  by  now,  sir,"  answered 
Henry. 

"  Then  go  to  Hinton's  and  order  some  cutlets." 

"  I  say,  Henry,"  shouted  Drysdale  to  the  retreating 
scout ;  "  not  to  my  tick,  mind !  Put  them  down  to  Mr.  St. 
Cloud." 

Henry  seemed  to   know  very  well  that  in   that  case  he 


80  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

might  save  himself  the  trouble  of  the  journey,  and  consequent- 
ly returned  to  his  waiting;  and  the  Honorable  Piers  set  to 
work  upon  bis  breakfast,  without  showing  any  further  ill-tem- 
per certainly,  except  by  the  stinging  things  which  he  threw 
every  now  and  then  into  the  conversation,  for  the  benefit  of 
each  01  ihe  others  in  turn. 

Tom  thought  he  detected  signs  of  coming  hostilities  between 
his  host  and  St.  Cloud,  for  Drysdale  seemed  to  prick  up  his  ears 
and  get  combative  whenever  the  other  spoke,  and  lost  no 
chance  of  roughing  him  in  his  replies.  And,  indeed,  he  waan't 
far  wrong;  the  fact  being,  f  hat  during  Drysdale's  first  term, 
the  other  had  lived  on  him — drinking  his  wine,  smoking 
his  cigars,  driving  his  dog-cart,  and  winning  his  money ;  all 
which  Drysdale,  who  was  the  easiest-going  and  best-tempered 
fellow  in  Oxford,  would  have  stood  without  turning  a  hair.  But 
St.  Cloud  added  to  these  little  favors  a  half-patronizing,  half-con- 
temptuous manner,  which  he  used  with  great  success  towards 
some  of  the  other  gentlemen-commoners,  who  thought  it  a 
mark  of  high  breeding,  and  the  correct  thing,  but  which  Drys- 
dale, who  didn't  care  three  straws  about  knowing  St.  Cloud, 
wasn't  going  to  put  up  with. 

However,  nothing  happened  but  a  little  sparring,  and 
the  breakfast  things  were  cleared  away,  and  the  tankards 
left  on  the  table,  and  the  company  betook  themselves  to 
cigars  and  easy  chairs,  Jack  coming  out  of  his  corner  to  be 
gratified  with  some  of  the  remnants  by  his  fond  master, 
and  then  curling  himself  up  on  the  sofa  along  which  Drysdale 
lounged. 

"  What  are  yon  going  to  do  to-day,  Drysdale  ? "  said  one 
of  the  others.  "  I  ve  ordered  a  leader  sent  on  over  the 
bridge,  and  mean  to  drive  my  dog-cart  over,  and  dine  at 
Abingdon.  Won't  you  come  ?  " 

w  Who's  going  besides  ?  "  asked  Drysdale. 

"  Oh,  only  St.  Cloud  and  Farley  here.  There's  lots  of  room 
for  a  fourth." 

"No,  thank'ee;  teaming's  slow  work  on  the  back  seat,  Be« 
sides,  I've  half  promised  to  go  down  in  the  boat." 

"  In  the  boat ! "  shouted  the  other.  "  Why,  you  don't  mean 
to  say  you're  going  to  take  to  pulling?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  I  rather  think  I  am.  I'm  dog-tired 
of  driving  and  doing  the  High  Street,  and  playing  cards  and 
billiards  all  day,  and  our  boat  is  likely  to  be  head  of  the  river, 
I  think." 

"  By  Jove !  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  you 
taking  to  reading,  or  going  to  University  Sermon,"  put  in 
St.  Cloud. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DKYSDAL1T8.  31 

**  And  the  boating-men,  too,"  went  on  Farley ;  "  did  you 
ever  see  such  a  set,  St.  Cloud  ?  with  their  everlasting  flannels 
and  jerseys,  and  hair  cropped  like  prize-fighters?" 

u  I'll  bet  a  guinea  there  isn't  one  of  then  has  more  than  £200. 
a  year,"  put  in  Chanter,  whose  father  could  just  write  his 
name,  and  was  making  a  colossal  fortune  by  supplying  bad 
iron  rails  to  the  new  railway  companies. 

"  What  the  devil  do  I  care,"  broke  in  Drysdale  ;  "  I  know 
they're  a  deal  more  amusing  than  you  fellows,  who  can  do 
nothing  that  don't  cost  pounds." 

"  Getting  economical !  "  sneered  St.  Cloud. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  tearing  one's  heart  out,  and 
blistering  one's  hands,  only  to  get  abused  by  that  little  brute 
Miller  the  coxswain,"  said  Farley. 

"  Why,  you  won't  be  able  to  sit  straight  in  your  chair  for  a 
month,"  said  Chanter;  "and  the  captain  will  make  you  dine 
at  one,  and  fetch  you  out  of  anybody's  rooms,  confound  his 
impudence  whether  he  knows  them  or  not,  at  eleven  o'clock 
every  night." 

"  Two  cigars  a  day,  and  a  pint  and  a  half  of  liquid,"  and 
Farley  inserted  his  cod-fish  face  into  the  tankard  ;  "  fancy 
Drysdale  on  training  allowance !  " 

Here  a  new-comer  entered  in  a  bachelor's  gown,  who  was 
warmly  greeted  by  the  name  of  Sanders  by  Drysdale.  St. 
Cloud  and  he  exchanged  the  coldest  possible  nods;  and  the 
other  two,  taking  the  office  from  their  mentor,  stared  at  him 
through  their  smoke,  and,  after  a  minute  or  two's  silence,  and 
a  few  rude  half-whispered  remarks  amongst  themselves,  went 
off  to  play  a  game  of  pyramids  till  luncheon  time.  Sanders 
took  a  cigar  which  Drysdale  offered,  and  began  asking  him 
about  his  friends  at  home,  and  what  he  had  been  doing  in  the 
vacation. 

They  were  evidently  intimate,  though  Tom  thought  that 
Drysdale  didn't  seem  quite  at  his  ease  at  first,  which  he  won- 
dered at,  as  Sanders  took  his  fancy  at  once.  However,  eleven 
o'clock  struck,  and  Tom  had  to  go  off  to  lecture,  where  we  can- 
not follow  him  just  now,  but  must  remain  with  Drysdale  and 
Sanders,  who  chatted  on  very  pleasantly  for  some  twenty 
minutes-,  till  a  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  was  not  till  the 
third  summons  that  Drysdale  shouted  "Come  in,"  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders,  and  an  impatient  kick  at  the  sofa-cushion  at 
his  feet,  as  though  he  were  not  half  pleased  at  the  approaching 
visit. 

Reader !  had  you  not  ever  a  friend  a  few  years  older  than 
yourself*  whose  good  opinion  you  were  anxious  to  keep  ?  A 


32  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

fellow  teres  atque  rotundus ;  who  could  do  everything  better 
than  you,  from  Plato  and  tennis  down  to  singing  a  comic  song 
and  playing  quoits?  If  you  have  had,  wasn't  he  always  in 
your  rooms  or  company  whenever  anything  happened  to  show 
your  little  weak  points  ?  Sanders,  at  any  rate,  occupied  this 
position  towards  our  young  friend  Drysdale,  and  the  latter, 
much  as  he  liked  Sanders'  company,  would  have  preferred  it  at 
any  time  than  on  an  idle  morning  just  at  the  beginning  of  term, 
when  the  gentlemen-tradesmen,  who  look  upon  undergraduates, 
in  general,  and  gentlemen-commoners  in  particular,  as  their 
lawful  prey,  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  in  flocks. 

The  new  arrival  was  a  tall  florid  man,  with  a  half-servile, 
half-impudent  manner,  and  a  foreign  accent ;  dressed  in 
sumptuous  costume,  with  a  velvet-faced  coat,  and  »  gorgeous 
plush  waistcoat.  Under  his  arm  he  carried  a  large  parcel, 
which  he  proceeded  to  open,  and  placed  upon  a  sofa  the  con- 
tents, consisting  of  a  couple  of  coats,  and  three  or  four  waist- 
coats and  pairs  of  trousers.  He  saluted  Sanders  with  a  most 
obsequious  bow,  looked  nervously  at  Jack,  who  opened  one 
eye  from  between  his  master's  legs  and  growled,  and  then, 
turning  to  Drysdale,  asked  if  he  should  have  the  honor  of  see- 
ing him  try  on  any  of  the  clothes  ? 

"  No ;  I  can't  be  bored  with  trying  them  on  now,"  said 
Drysdale ;  "  leave  them  where  they  are." 

Mr.  Schloss  would  like  very  much  on  his  return  to  town,  in 
a  day  or  two,  to  be  able  to  assure  his  principals,  that  Mr. 
Drysdale's  orders  had  been  executed  to  his  satisfaction.  He 
had  also  some  very  beautiful  new  stuffs  with  him,  which  he 
should  like  to  submit  to  Mr.  Drysdale,  and  without  more  ado 
began  unfolding  cards  of  the  most  fabulous  plushes  and 
cloths. 

Drysdale  glanced  first  at  the  cards  and  then  at  Sanders,  who 
sat  puffing  his  cigar,  and  watching  Schloss's  proceedings  with 
a  look  not  unlike  Jack's  when  any  one  he  did  not  approve  of 
approached  his  master. 

"  Confound  your  patterns,  Schloss,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  I  tell 
you  I  have  more  things  than  I  want  already." 

"The  large  stripe,  such  as  these,  is  now  very  much  worn 
for  trousers  in  London,"  went  on  Schloss,  without  heeding  the 
rebuff,  and  spreading  his  cards  on  the  table. 

"  D trousers,"  replied  Drysdale ;  "  you  seem  to  think, 

Schloss,  that  a  fellow  has  ten  pairs  of  legs." 

"Monsieur  is  pleased  to  joke,"  smiled  Schloss  ;  "but,  to  be 
in  the  mode,  gentlemen  must  have  variety." 

"Well,  I  won't  order  any  now,  that's  flat,"  said  Drysdale. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DEYSDAL&S.  gg 

**  Monsieur  will  do  as  he  pleases ;  but  it  is  impossible  that 
he  should  not  have  some  plush  waistcoats  ;  the  fabric  is  only 
just  out,  and  is  making  a  sensation." 

"  Now  look  here,  Schloss ;  will  you  go  if  I  order  a  waist- 
coat?" 

"  Monsieur  is  very  good ;  he  sees  how  tasteful  these  new 
patterns  .are." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  seen  at  a  cock-fight  in  one  of  them ;  they're 
as  gaudy  as  a  salmon-fly,"  said  Drysdale,  feeling  the  stuff  which 
the  obsequious  Schloss  held  out.  "  But  it  seems  nice  stuff, 
too,"  he  went  on  ;  "I  shouldn't  mind  having  a  couple  of  waist- 
coats of  it  of  this  pattern;"  and  he  chucked  across  to  Schloss 
a  dark  tartan  waistcoat  which  was  lying  near  him.  "  Have 
you  got  the  stuff  in  that  pattern?" 

"  Ah !  no,"  said  Schloss,  gathering  up  the  waistcoat ;  "  but 
it  shall  not  hinder.  I  shall  have  at  once  a  loom  for  Monsieur 
set  up  in  Paris." 

"  Set  it  up  at  Jericho  if  you  like,"  said  Drysdale ;  "  and  now 
go!" 

"  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Schloss,"  broke  in  Sanders,  "  what  it  will 
cost  to  set  up  the  loom  ?  " 

"  Ah !  indeed,  a  trifle  only  ;  some  twelve,  or  perhaps  fourteen, 
pounds."  Sanders  gave  a  chuckle,  and  puffed  away  at  his 
cigar. 

"  By  Jove,"  shouted  Drysdale,  jerking  himself  into  a  sitting 
posture,  and  upsetting  Jack,  who  went  trotting  about  the 
room,  and  snuffing  at  Schloss's  legs ;  "  do  you  mean,  to  say, 
Schloss,  you  were  going  to  make  me  waistcoats  at  fourteen 
guineas  apiece  ?  " 

"  Not  if  Monsieur  disapproves.  Ah !  the  large  hound  is  not 
friendly  to  strangers ;  I  will  call  again  when  monsieur  is  more 
at  leisure."  And  Schloss  gathered  up  his  cards  and  beat  a 
hasty  retreat,  followed  by  Jack  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
casting  an  enraged  look  at  Sanders,  as  he  slid  through  the 
door. 

"Well  done,  Jack,  old  boy! "said  Sanders,  patting  him; 
**  what  a  funk  the  fellow  was  in.  Well,  you've  saved  your 
master  a  pony  this  fine  morning.  Cheap  dog  you've  got,  Drys- 
dale." 

"  D the  fellow,"  answered  Drysdale,  "  he  leaves  a  bad 

taste  in  one's  mouth ; "  and  he  went  to  the  table,  took  a  pull 
at  the  tankard,  and  then  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa  again, 
and  Jack  jumped  up  and  coiled  himself  round  by  his  master's 
legs,  keeping  one  half-open  eye  winking  at  him,  and  giving  an 
occasional  wag  with  the  end  of  his  taper  taii. 


34  TOM*BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Sanders  got  up,  and  began  handling  the  new  things.  First 
he  held  up  a  pair  of  bright  blue  trousers,  with  a  red  stripe 
across  them,  Drysdale  looking  on  from  the  sofa.  "  I  say, 
Drysdale,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  really  ordered  these 
thunder-and-lightning  affairs  ?  " 

"  Heaven  only  knows,"  said  Drysdale ;  "  I  dare  say  I  did, 
I'd  order  a  full  suit  cut  out  of  my  grandmother's  farthingale  to 
get  that  cursed  Schloss  out  of  my  room  sometimes." 

"  You'll  never  be  able  to  wear  them  ;  even  in  Oxford  the 
boys  would  mob  you.  Why  don't  you  kick  him  down  stairs?  " 
suggested  Sanders,  putting  down  the  trousers,  and  turning  to 
Drysdale. 

"  Well,  I've  been  very  near  it  once  or  twice ;  but  I  don't 
know — my  name's  Easy — besides,  I  don't  want  to  give  up  the 
beast  altogether ;  he  makes  the  best  trousers  in  England." 

"  And  these  waistcoats,"  went  on  Sanders ;  "  let  me  see ; 
three  light  silk  waistcoats,  peach-color,  fawn-color,  and  lavender. 
Well,  of  course,  you  can  only  wear  these  at  your  weddings. 
You  may  be  married  the  first  time  in  the  peach  or  fawn-color ; 
and  then,  if  you've  luck,  and  bury  your  first  wife  soon,  it 
will  be  a  delicate  compliment  to  take  to  No.  2  in  the  lavender, 
that  being  half-mourning ;  but  still,  you  see,  we're  in  difficulty 
as  to  one  of  the  three,  either  the  peach  or  the  fawn  color — " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  another  knock,  and  a  boy  entered 
from  the  fashionable  tobacconist's  in  Oriel  Lane,  who  had 
general  orders  to  let  Drysdale  have  his  fair  share  of  anything 
very  special  in  the  cigar  line.  He  deposited  a  two-pound  box 
of  cigars  at  three  guineas  the  pound  on  the  table,  and  with- 
drew in  silence. 

Then  came  a  bootmaker  with  a  new  pair  of  top-boots,  whick 
Drysdale  had  ordered  in  November,  and  had  forgotten  next 
day.  This  artist,  wisely  considering  that  his  young  patron 
must  have  plenty  of  tops  to  last  him  through  the  hunting 
season  (he  himself  having  supplied  three  previous  pairs  in 
October),  had  retained  the  present  pair  for  show  in  his  window ; 
and  every  one  knows  that  boots  wear  much  better  for  being 
kept  some  time  before  use.  Now,  however,  as  the  hunting 
season  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  place  in  the  window 
was  wanted  for  spring  stock,  he  judiciously  sent  in  the  tops, 
merely  adding  half-a-sovereign  or  so  to  the  price  for  interest  on 
his  outlay  since  the  order.  He  also  kindly  left  on  the  table  a 
pair  of  large  plated  spurs  to  match  the  boots- 

It  never  rains  bwi  it  pours.  Sanders  sat  smoking  his  cigar 
in  provoking  silence,  while  knock  succeeded  knock,  and  trades- 
man followed  tradesman ;  each  depositing  some  article  ordered 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  DBYSDALE'S.  35 

or  supposed  to  have  been  ordered,  or  which  ought  in  the  judg- 
ment of  the  depositors  to  have  been  ordered,  by  the  luckless 
Drysdale ;  and  new  hats  and  ties  and  gloves  and  pins  jostled 
balsam  of  Neroli,  and  registered  shaving-soap,  and  fancy  letter- 
paper,  and  eau  de  Cologne,  on  every  available  table.  A  visit 
from  two  livery-stable-keepers  in  succession  followed,  each  of 
whom  had  several  new  leaders  which  they  were  anxious  Mr. 
Drysdale  should  try  as  soon  as  possible.  Drysdale  growled 
and  grunted,  and  wished  them  or  Sanders  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea ;  however,  he  consoled  himself  with  the  thought  that  the 
worst  was  now  passed, — there  was  no  other  possible  supplier 
of  undergraduate  wants  who  could  arrive. 

Not  so ;  in  another  minute  a  gentle  knock  came  at  the  door. 
Jack  pricked  up  his  ears  and  wagged  his  tail ;  Drysdale  reck- 
lessly shouted,  "Come  in!"  the  door  slowly  opened  about 
eighteen  inches,  and  a  shock  head  of  hair  entered  the  room, 
from  which  one  lively  little  gimlet  eye  went  glancing  about 
into  every  corner.  The  other  eye  was  closed,  but  whether  as 
a  perpetual  wink  to  indicate  the  unsleeping  wariness  of  the 
owner,  or  because  that  hero  had  really  lost  the  power  of  using 
it  in  some  of  his  numerous  encounters  with  men  and  beasts,  no 
one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  ascertained. 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir ! "  began  the  head ;  and  then  rapidly 
withdrew  behind  the  door  to  avoid  one  of  the  spurs,  which 
(being  the  missile  nearest  at  hand)  Drysdale  instantly  dis< 
charged  at  it.  As  the  spur  fell  to  the  floor,  the  head  reap 
peared  in  the  room,  and  as  quickly  disappeared  again,  in  clet 
erence  to  the  other  spur,  the  top  boots,  an  ivory  handled  hair- 
brush, and  a  translation  of  Euripides,  which  in  turn  saluted 
each  successive  appearance  of  said  head;  and  the  grin  waL 
broader  on  each  reappearance. 

Then  Drysdale,  having  no  other  article  within  reach  which 
he  could  throw,  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter,  in  which  San- 
ders and  the  head  heartily  joined,  and  shouted,  "Come  in,  Joe, 
you  old  fool !  and  don't  stand  bobbing  your  ugly  old  mug  in 
and  out  there,  like  a  jack  in  the  box." 

So  the  head  came  in,  and  after  it  the  body,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  it ;  and  a  queer,  cross-grained,  tough-looking  body 
it  was,  of  about  fifty  years  standing,  or  rather  slouching, 
clothed  in  an  old  fustian  coat,  corduroy  breeches  and  gaiters, 
and  being  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  Joe  Muggles,  the  dog- 
fancier  of  St.  Aldate's. 

"  How  the  deuce  did  you  get  by  the  lodge,  Joe  ?  "  inquired 
Drysdale.  Joe,  be  it  known,  had  been  forbidden  the  college 
for  importing  a  sack  of  rats  intx*  the  inner  quadrangle,  upon. 


36  TOM  BHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  turf  of  which  a  match  at  rat-killing  had  come  off  between 
the  terriers  of  two  gentlemen-commoners.  This  little  event 
might  have  passed  unnoticed,  but  that  Drysdale  had  bought 
from  Joe  a  dozen  of  the  slaughtered  rats,  and  nailed  them  on 
the  doors  of  the  four  college  tutors,  three  to  a  door;  where- 
upon inquiry  had  been  made,  and  Joe  had  been  outlawed. 

"  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,  I  just  watched  the  'ed  por- 
ter, sir,  across  to  the  buttery  to  get  his  mornin',  and  then  I 
tips  a  wink  to  the  under-porter  (pal  o'  mine,  sir,  the  under 
porter,)  and  makes  a  run  of  it  right  up." 

"  Well,  you'll  be  quod'ed  if  you're  caught !  Now,  what  do 
you  want?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,"  said  Joe,  in  his  most 
insinuating  tone,  "  my  mate  hev  got  an  old  dog  brock,  sir,  from 
the  Heythrop  kennel,  and  Honble  Wernham,  sir,  of  New  Inn 
'All,  sir,  he've  jist  been  down  our  yard  with  a  fighting  chap 
from  town,  Mr.  Drysdale — in  the  fancy,  sir,  he  is,  and  hev  got 
a  matter  of  three  dogs  down  wi'un,  a  stoppin  at  Milky  Bill's.  And 
he  says,  says  he,  Mr.  Drysdale,  as  arm  one  of  he's  dogs  '11  draw 
the  old  un  three  times,  while  arra  Oxford  dog '11  draw  un  twice, 
and  Honble  Wernham  chaffs  as  how  he'll  back  un  for  a  fi'-pun 
note  ;  " — and  Joe  stopped  to  caress  Jack,  who  was  fawning  on 
him  as  if  he  understood  every  word. 

"Well,  Joe,  what  then  ?  "  said  Drysdale. 

"  So  you  see,  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,"  went  on  Joe,  fondling 
Jack's  muzzle,  "  my  mate  says,  says  he,  '  Jack's  the  dog  as 
can  draw  a  brock,'  says  he,  '  agin  any  Lunnun  dog  as  ever 
was  whelped  ;  and  Mr.  Drysdale,'  says  he,  'aint  the  man  as  'd 
see  two  poor  chaps  bounced  out  of  their  honest  name  by  arra 
town  chap,  and  a  fi'-pun  note's  no  more  to  he,  for  the  matter 
o'  that,  then  to  Honble  Wernham  his  self,'  says  my  mate." 

"So  I'm  to  lend  you  Jack  for  a  match,  and  stand  the 
stakes?" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Drysdale,  sir,  that  was  what  my  mate  was  a 
sayin'." 

"  You're  cool  hands,  you  and  your  mate,"  said  Drysdale ; 
"  here,  take  a  drink,  and  get  out,  and  I'll  think  about  it." 
Drysdale  was  now  in  a  defiant  humor,  and  resolved  not  to  let 
Sanders  think  that  his  presence  could  keep  him  from  any  act 
of  folly  which  he  was  minded  to. 

Joe  took  his  drink;  and  just  then  several  men  came  in  from 
lecture,  and  drew  off  Drysdalje's  attention  from  Jack,  who 
quietly  followed  Joe  out  of  the  room,  when  that  worthy  disap- 
peared. Drysdale  only  laughed  when  he  found  it  out,  and 
went  down  to  the  yard  that  afternoon  to  see  the  match  be- 
tween the  London  dog  and  his  own  pet. 


THE  ST.  AMBROSE  BOAT  CLUB.  87 

in  the  world  are  youngsters  with  unlimited  credit, 
plenty  of  ready  money,  and  fast  tastes,  to  be  kept  from  making 
fools  and  blackguards  of  themselves  up  here  ?  "  thought  San- 
ders as  he  strolled  back  to  his  college.  And  it  is  a  question 
which  has  exercised  other  heads  besides  his,  and  probably  is  a 
long  way  yet  from  being  well  solved. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   ST.    AMBROSE   BOAT-CLUB:   ITS    MINISTRY    AND    THEIB 
BUDGET. 

WE  left  our  hero,  a  short  time  back,  busily  engaged  on 
his  dinner  commons,  and!  resolved  forthwith  to  make  great 
friends  with  Hardy.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  there 
could  be  the  slightest  difficulty  in  carrying  out  this  re- 
solve. After  such  a  passage  as  they  two  had  had  together 
that  afternoon,  he  felt  that  the  usual  outworks  of  acquaint- 
anceship had  been  cleared  at  a  bound,  and  looked  upon 
Hardy  already  as  an  old  friend  to  whom  he  could  talk  out 
his  mind  as  freely  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  to  his  old  tutor 
at  school,  or  to  Arthur.  Moreover,  as  there  were  already 
several  things  in  his  head  which  he  was  anxious  to  ventilate, 
he  was  all  the  more  pleased  that  chance  had  thrown  him  across 
a  man  of  so  much  older  standing  than  himself,  and  one  to 
whom  he  instinctively  felt  that  he  could  look  up. 

Accordingly,  after  grace  had  been  said,  and  he  saw  that 
Hardy  had  not  finished  his  dinner,  but  sat  down  again  when 
the  fellows  had  left  the  hall,  he  strolled  out,  meaning  to  wait 
for  his  victim  outside,  and  seize  upon  him  then  and  thei-e ;  so 
h,e  stopped  on  the  steps  outside  the  hall-door,  and,  to  pass  the 
time,  joined  himself  to  one  or  two  other  men  with  whom  he 
had  a  speaking  acquaintance,  who  were  also  hanging  about. 
While  they  were  talking,  Hardy  came  out  of  hall,  and  Tom 
turned  and  stepped  forward,  meaning  to  speak  to  him  ;  wher^ 
to  his  utter  discomfiture,  the  other  walked  quickly  away, 
looking  straight  before  him,  and  without  showing,  by  look  or 
gesture,  that  he  was  conscious  of  our  hero's  existence,  or  had 
ever  seen  him  before  in  his  life. 

Tom  was  so  takea  aback  that  he  made  no  effort  to  follow. 
He  just  glanced  at  his  companions  to  see  whether  they  had 
noticed  the  occurrence,  and  was  glad  to  see  that  they  had  not 
(being  deep  in  the  discussion  of  the  merits  of  a  new  hunter  of 


38  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Simmon's,  which  one  of  them  had  been  riding)  ;  so  he  walked 
away  by  himself  to  consider  what  it  could  mean.  But  the 
more  he  puzzled  about  it,  the  less  could  he  understand  it. 
Surely,  he  thought,  Hardy  must  have  seen  me ;  and  yet,  if  he 
had,  why  did  he  not  recognize  me  ?  My  cap  and  gown  can't 
be  such  a  disguise  as  all  that.  But  common  decency  must 
have  led  him  to  ask  whether  I  was  any  the  worse  for  my  duck- 
ing, if  he  knew  me. 

He  scouted  the  notion,  which  suggested  itself  once  or 
twice,  that  Hardy  meant  to  cut  him ;  and  so,  not  being  able 
to  come  to  any  reasonable  conclusion,  suddenly  bethought 
him  that  he  was  asked  to  a  wine  party ;  and,  putting  his  specu- 
lations aside  for  the  moment,  with  the  full  intention  neverthe- 
less of  clearing  up  the  mystery  as  soon  as  possible,  he  betook 
himself  to  the  rooms  of  his  entertainer. 

They  were  fair-sized  rooms  in  the  second  quadrangle, 
furnished  plainly  but  well,  so  far  as  Tom  could  judge ;  but 
as  they  were  now  laid  out  for  the  wine  party,  they  had 
lost  all  individual  character  for  the  time.  Every  one  of 
us,  I  suppose,  is  fond  of  studying  the  rooms,  chambers,  dens 
in  short,  of  whatever  sort  they  may  be,  of  our  friends  and 
acquaintance— at  least,  I  know  that  I  myself  like  to  see 
what  sort  or  a  chair  a  man  sits  in,  where  he  puts  it,  what 
books  lie  or  stand  on  the  shelves  nearest  his  hand,  what 
the  objects  are  which  he  keeps  most  familiarly  before  him,  in 
that  particular  nook  of  the  earth's  surface  in  which  he  is  most 
at  home,  where  he  pulls  off  his  coat,  collar,  and  boots,  and  gets 
into  an  old  easy  shooting-jacket,  and  his  broadest  slippers.  Fine 
houses  and  fine  rooms  have  no  attraction  whatever,  I  should 
think,  for  most  men,  and  those  who  have  the  finest  drawing- 
rooms  are  probably  the  most  bored  by  them  ;  but  the  den  of  a 
man  you  like,  or  are  disposed  to  like,  has  the  strongest  and 
strangest  attraction  for  you.  However,  as  I  was  saying,  an 
)xford  undergraduate's  room,  set  out  for  a  wine  party,  can  tell 
you  nothing.  All  the  characteristics  arc  shoved  away  into  the 
background,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  long  mahog- 
any set  out  with  bottles,  glasses,  and  dessert.  In  the  present 
instance  the  preparations  for  festivity  were  pretty  much  what 
they  ought  to  be :  good  sound  port  and  sherry,  biscuits,  and  a 
plate  or  two  of  nuts  and  dried  fruits.  The  host,  who  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  board,  was  one  of  the  mainstays  of  the  college  boat- 
club.  He  was  treasurer  of  the  club,  and  also  a  sort  of  boating, 
nurse,  who  looked  up  and  trained  the  young  oars,  and  in  this 
capacity  had  been  in  commaud  of  the  freshman's  four-oar,  in 
which  Tom  had  been  learning  his  rudiments.  He  was  a  heavy, 


THE  ST.  AMBROSE  BOAT  CLUB.  39 

bnrly  man,  naturally  awkward  in  his  movements,  but  gifted  with 
a  sort  of  steady,  dogged  enthusiasm,  and  by  dint  of  hard  and  con- 
stant training  had  made  himself  into  a  most  useful  oar,  fit  for  any 
place  in  the  middle  of  the  boat.  In  the  two  years  of  his  resi- 
dence he  had  pulled  down  to  Sandford  every  day  except  Sundays, 
and  much  further  whenever  he  could  get  anybody  to  accompany 
him.  He  was  the  most  good-natured  man  in  the  world,  very  badly 
dressed,  very  short-sighted,  and  called  everybody  "  old  fellow." 
His  name  was  simple  Smith,  generally  known  as  Diogenes 
Smith,  from  an  eccentric  habit  which  he  had  of  making  an  easy- 
chair  of  his  hip-bath.  Malicious  acquaintance  declared  that 
when  Smith  first  came  up,  and,  having  paid  the  valuation  for 
the  furniture  in  his  rooms,  came  to  inspect  the  same,  the  tub  in 
question  had  been  left  by  chance  in  the  sitting-room,  and  that 
Smith,  not  having  the  faintest  idea  of  its  proper  use,  had  by 
the  exercise  of  his  natural  reason  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  could  only  be  meant  for  a  man  to  sit  in,  and  so  had  kept  it 
in  his  sitting-room,  and  taken  to  it  as  an  ai-m-chair.  This  I  have 
reason  to  believe  was  a  libel.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  in 
his  first  term  he  was  discovered  sitting  solemnly  in  his  tub,  by 
his  fireside,  with  his  spectacles  on,  playing  the  flute — the  only 
other  recreation  besides  boating  in  which  he  indulged  ;  and  no 
amount  of  quizzing  could  get  him  out  of  the  habit.  When 
alone,  or  with  only  one  or  two  friends  in  his  room,  he  still  oc- 
cupied the  tub  ;  and  declared  that  it  was  the  most  perfect  of 
seats  hitherto  invented,  and  above  all,  adapted  for  the  recrea- 
tion of  a  boating-man,  to  whom  cushioned  seats  should  be  an 
abomination.  He  was  naturally  a  very  hospitable  man,  and  on 
this  night  was  particularly  anxious  to  make  his  rooms  pleasant 
to  all  comers,  as  it  was  a  sort  of  opening  of  the  boating  season. 
This  wine  of  his  was  a  business  matter,  in  fact,  to  which  Diogenes 
had  invited  officially,  as  treasurer  of  the  boat-club,  every  man 
who  had  ever  shown  the  least  tendency  to  pulling, — many  with 
whom  he  had  scarcely  a  nodding  acquaintance.  For  Miller, 
the  coxswain,  had  come  up  at  last.  He  had  taken  his  B.A.  de- 
gree in  the  Michaelmas  term,  and  been  very  near  starting  for  a 
tour  in  the  East.  Upon  turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind, 
however,  Miller  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Palestine,  and 
Greece  could  not  run  away,  but  that,  unless  he  was  there  to 
keep  matters  going,  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  would  lose  the  best 
chance  it  was  ever  likely  to  have  of  getting  to  the  head 
of  the  river ;  so  he  had  patriotically  resolved  to  reside  till  June, 
read  divinity,  and  coach  the  racing  crew  ;  and  had  written  to 
Diogenes  to  call  together  the  whole  boating  interest  of  the 
college,  that  they  might  set  to  work  at  once  in  good  earnest. 


40  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Tom,  and  the  three  or  four  other  freshmen  present,  were  duly 
presented  to  Miller  as  they  came  in,  who  looked  them  over  as 
the  colonel  of  a  crack  regiment  might  look  over  horses 
at  Horncastle-fair,  with  a  single  eye  to  their  bone  and 
muscle,  and  how  much  work  might  be  got  out  of  them. 
They  then  gathered  towards  the  lower  end  of  the  long  table, 
and  surveyed  the  celebrities  at  the  upper  end  with  much 
respect.  Miller,  the  coxswain,  sat  on  the  host's  right  hand, — a 
slight,  resolute,  fiery  little  man,  with  curly  black  hair.  He  was 
peculiarly  qualified  by  nature  for  the  task  which  he  had  set 
himself ;  and  it  takes  no  mean  qualities  to  keep  a  boat's  crew  well 
together  and  in  order.  Perhaps  he  erred  a  little  on  the  side 
of  over-strictness  and  seventy;  and  he  certainly  would  have 
been  more  popular  had  his  manner  been  a  thought  more  cour- 
teous ;  but  the  men  who  rebelled  most  against  his  tyranny 
grumblingly  confessed  that  he  was  a  first-rate  coxswain. 

A  very  different  man  was  the  captain  of  the  boat,  who  sat 
opposite  to  Miller;  altogether  a  noble  specimen  of  a  very  noble 
type  of  our  countrymen.  Tall  and  strong  of  body ;  courageous 
and  even-tempered  ;  tolerant  of  all  men  ;  sparing  of  speech,  but 
ready  in  action ;  a  thoroughly  well-balanced,  modest,  quiet 
Englishman  ; — one  of  those  who  do  a  good  stroke  of  the  work 
of  the  country  without  getting  much  credit  for  it,  or  ever  be- 
coming aware  of  the  fact ;  for  the  last  thing  such  men  under- 
stand is  how  to  blow  their  own  trumpets.  He  was  perhaps  too 
easy  for  the  captain  of  St.  Ambrose's  boat-club ;  at  any  rate,  Mil- 
ler was  always  telling  him  so  ;  but,  if  he  were  not  strict  enough 
with  others,  he  never  spared  himself,  and  was  as  good  as  three 
men  in  the  boat  at  a  pinch. 

But  if  I  venture  on  more  introductions,  my  readers  will  get 
bewildered  ;  so  I  must  close  the  list,  much  as  I  should  like  to 
make  them  known  to  "fortis  Gyas  fortisque  Cloarthus,"  who 
sat  round  the  chiefs,  laughing  and  consulting,  and  speculating 
on  the  chances  of  the  coming  races.  No ;  stay,  there  is  one 
other  man  they  must  make  room  for.  Here  he  comes,  rather 
late,  in  a  very  glossy  hat,  the  only  man  in  the  room  not  in  cap 
and  gown.  He  walks  up  and  takes  his  place  by  the  side  of  the 
kost  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  a  handsome,  pale  man,  with  a  dark, 
quick  eye,  conscious  that  he  draws  attention  wherever  he  goes, 
and  apparently  of  opinion  that  it  is  his  right. 

"  Who  is  that  who  has  just  come  in  in  beaver?"  said  Tom, 
touching  the  man  next  to  him. 

"  Oh  !  don't  you  know?  that's  Blake  ;  he's  the  most  wonder- 
ful fellow  in  Oxford,"  answered  his  neighbor. 
r*lHow  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Tom. 


THE  &T.  AMBROSE  BOAT  CLUB,  41 

"  Why,  he  can  do  everything  better  than  almost  anybody, 
and  without  any  trouble  at  all.  Miller  was  obliged  to  have  him 
in  the  boat  last  year,  though  he  never  trained  a  bit.  Then  he's 
in  the  eleven,  and  is  a  wonderful  rider,  and  tennis-player,  and 
shot." 

"  Ay,  and  he's  so  awfully  clever  with  it  all,"  joined  in  the 
man  on  the  other  side.  "He'll  be  a  safe  first,  though  I  don't 
believe  he  reads  more  than  you  or  I.  He  can  write  songs,  too, 
as  fast  as  you  can  talk  nearly,  and  sings  them  wonderfully." 

"  Is  he  of  our  college,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  of  course,  or  he  couldn't  have  been  in  our  boat  last 
year." 

"  But  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  him  in  chapel  or  hall." 

"No;  I  dare  say  not.  He  hardly  ever  goes  to  either,  and 
yet  he  manages  never  to  get  hauled  up  much,  no  one  knows 
how.  He  never  gets  up  now  till  the  afternoon,  and  sits  up 
nearly  all  night  playing  cards  with  the  fastest  fellows,  or  going 
round  singing  glees  at  three  or  four  in  the  morning." 

Tom  sipped  his  port  and  looked  with  great  interest  at  the 
admirable  Crichton  of  St  Ambrose's ;  and,  after  watching  him  a 
few  minutes,  said  in  a  low  voice  to  his  neighbor, — 

"  How  wretched  he  looks ;  I  never  saw  a  sadder  face." 

"  Poor  Blake !  one  can't  help  calling  him  *  poor,'  although  he 
himself  would  have  winced  at  it  more  than  at  any  other  name 
you  could  have  called  him.  You  might  have  admired,  feared,  or 
wondered  at  him,  and  he  would  have  been  pleased ;  the  object 
of  his  life  was  to  raise  such  feelings  in  his  neighbors ;  but  pity 
was  the  last  which  he  would  have  liked  to  excite." 

He  was  indeed  a  wonderfully  gifted  fellow,  full  of  all  sorts  of 
energy  and  talent,  and  power  and  tenderness;  and  yet,  as  his 
face  told  only  too  truly  to  any  one  who  watched  him  when  he 
was  exerting  himself  in  society,  one  of  the  most  wretched  men 
in  the  college.  He  had  a  passion  for  success, — for  beating 
everybody  else  in  whatever  he  took  in  hand,  and  that  too,  with- 
out seeming  to  make  any  great  effort  himself.  The  doing  a  thing 
well  and  thoroughly  gave  him  no  satisfaction  unless  he  could 
feel  that  he  was  doing  it  better  and  more  easily  than  A,  B,  or  C, 
and  that  they  felt  and  acknowledged  this.  He  had  had  his  full 
swing  of  success  for  two  years,  and  now  the  Nemesis  was  coming. 

For,  although  not  an  extravagant  man,  many  of  the  pursuits  in 
which  he  had  eclipsed  all  rivals  were  far  beyond  the  means  of 
any  but  a  rich  one,  and  Blake  was  not  rich.  He  had  a  fair  al- 
lowance, but  by  the  end  of  his  first  year  was  considerably  in  debt, 
and,  at  the  time  we  are  speaking  of,  the  whole  pack  of  Oxford 
tradesmen  into  whose  books  he  "had  got  (having  smelt  out  the 


42  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

leanness  of  his  expectations),  were  upon  him,  besieging  him  for 
payment.  This  miserable  and  constant  annoyance  was  wearing 
his  soul  out.  This  was  the  reason  why  his  oak  was  sported,  and 
he  was  never  seen  till  the  afternoons,  and  turned  night  into  day. 
He  was  too  proud  to  come  to  any  understanding  with  his  per- 
secutors, even  had  it  been  possible  ;  and  now,  at  his  sorest  need 
his  whole  scheme  of  life  was  failing  him ;  his  love  of  success 
was  turning  into  ashes  in  his  mouth  ;  he  felt  much  more  disgust 
than  pleasure  at  his  triumphs  over  other  men,  and  yet  the  habit 
of  striving  for  such  successes,  notwithstanding  its  irksomeness 
was  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 

Poor  Blake !  he  was  living  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  flashing 
out  with  all  his  old  brilliancy  and  power,  and  forcing  himself  to 
take  the  lead  in  whatever  company  he  might  be ;  but  utterly 
lonely  and  depressed  when  by  himself — reading  feverishly  in 
secret,  in  a  desperate  effort  to  retrieve  all  by  high  honors  and  a 
fellowship.  As  Tom  said  to  his  neighbor,  there  was  no  sadder 
face  than  his  to  be  seen  in  Oxford. 

And  yet  at  this  very  wine  party  he  was  the  life  of  everything, 
as  he  sat  up  there  between  Diogenes — whom  he  kept  in  a  con- 
stant sort  of  mild  epileptic  fit,  from  laughter  and  wine  going  the 
wrong  way  (for  whenever  Diogenes  raised  his  glass  Blake  shot 
him  some  joke) — and  the  captain,  who  watched  him  with  the 
most  undisguised  admiration.  A  singular  contrast,  the  two 
men  !  Miller,  though  Blake  was  the  torment  of  his  life,  relaxed 
after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour ;  and  our  hero,  by  the  same 
time  gave  himself  credit  for  being  a  much  greater  ass  than  he 
was,  for  having  ever  thought  Blake's  face  a  sad  one. 

When  the  room  was  quite  full,  and  enough  wine  had  been 
clruuk  to  open  the  hearts  of  the  guests,  Diogenes  rose  on  a 
signal  from  Miller,  and  opened  the  budget.  The  financial 
statement  was  a  satisfactory  one  ;  the  club  was  almost  free  of 
debt ;  and,  comparing  their  positions  with  that  of  other  col- 
leges Diogenes  advised  that  they  might  fairly  burden  them- 
selves a  little  more,  and  then,  if  they  would  stand  a  whip  of 
five  shillings  a  man,  they  might  have  a  new  boat,  which  he 
believed  they  all  would  agree  had  become  necessary.  Miller 
supported  the  new  boat  in  a  pungent  little  speech ;  and  the 
captain,  when  appealed  to,  nodded  and  said  he  thought  they 
must  have  one.  So  the  small  supplies  and  the  large  addition 
to  the  club  debt  were  voted  unanimously,  and  the  captain, 
Miller,  and  Blake,  who  had  many  notions  as  to  the  flooring  lines, 
and  keel  of  a  racing  boat,  were  appointed  to  order  and  super- 
intend the  building. 

Soon  afterwards,  coffee  came  in  and  cigars  were  lighted ; 


THE  ST.  AMBROSE  BOAT  CLUB.  43 

a  large  section  of  the  party  went  off  to  play  pool,  others  to 
stroll  about  the  streets,  others  to  whist ;  a  few,  let  us  hope, 
to  their  own  rooms  to  read ;  but  these  latter  were  a  sadly 
small  minority  even  in  the  quietest  of  St.  Ambrose  parties. 

Tom,  who  was  fascinated  by  the  heroes  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  sat  steadily  on,  sidling  up  towards  them  as  the  inter- 
mediate places  became  vacant,  and  at  last  attained  the  nexj 
ciiair  but  one  to  the  captain,  where  for  the  time  he  sat  in  per- 
fect bliss.  Blake  and  Miller  were  telling  boating  stories  of 
the  Henley  and  Thames  regattas,  the  latter  of  which  had  lately 
been  started  with  great  clat ;  and  from  these  great  yearly 
events,  and  the  deeds  of  prowess  done  thereat,  the  talk  came 
gradually  round  to  the  next  races. 

"  Now,  captain,"  said  Miller  suddenly,  "  have  you  thought 
yet  whom  we  are  to  try  in  the  crew  this  year !  " 

"  No,  'pon  my  honor  I  haven't,"  said  the  captain ;  "  I'm  read- 
ing, and  have  no  time  to  spare.  Besides,  after  all,  there's  lots 
of  time  to  think  about  it.  Here,  we're  only  half  through 
Lent  term,  and  the  races  don't  begin  till  the  end  of  Easter 
term." 

"  It  wont  do,"  said  Miller ;  "  we  must  get  the  crew  together 
this  term." 

"  Well,  you  and  Smith  put  your  heads  together  and  manage 
it,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  will  go  down  any  day,  and  as  often 
as  you  like,  at  two  o'clock." 

"  Let's  see,"  said  Miller  to  Smith,  "  how  many  of  the  old 
crew  have  we  left  ?  " 

"  Five,  counting  Blake,"  answered  Diogenes. 

"  Counting  me !  well,  that's  cool,"  laughed  Blake ;  "  you 
old  tub-haunting  flute-player,  why  am  I  not  to  be  counted  ?  " 

"  You  never  will  train,  you  see,"  said  Diogenes. 

"  Smith  is  quite  right,"  said  Miller  ;  "  There's  no  counting 
on  you,  Blake.  Now  be  a  good  fellow  and  promise  to  be  reg- 
ular this  year." 

"  I'll  promise  to  do  my  work  in  a  race,  which  is  more  than 
some  of  your  best-trained  men  will  do,"  said  Blake,  rather 
piqued. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  think  on  the  subject,"  said  MiU 
ler;  "  but  whom  have  we  got  for  the  other  three  places?" 

"  There's  Drysdale  would  do,"  said  Diogenes  ;  "  I  heard  he 
was  a  capital  oar  at  Eton ;  and  so,  though  I  don't  know  him, 
I  managed  to  get  him  once  down  last  term.  He  would  do 
famously  for  No.  2,  or  No.  3,  if  he  would  pull." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Blake  ?  You  know  him,  I  suppose," 
said  Miller. 


44  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Yes,  I  know  him  well  enough,"  said  Blake ;  and,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  added,  "  I  don't  think  you  will  get  him  to  train 
much." 

"  Well,  we  must  try,"  said  Miller.  "  Now,  who  else  is  there  ?  " 

Smith  went  through  with  four  or  five  names,  at  each  of  which 
Miller  shook  his  head. 

"  Any  promising  freshmen  ?  "  said  he,  at  last. 

"  None  better  than  Brown  here,"  said  Smith ;  "  I  think  he'13 
do  well,  if  he  will  only  work,  and  stand  being  coached." 

"  Have  you  ever  pulled  much  ?  "  said  Miller. 

"  No,"  said  Tom, "  never  till  this  last  month — since  I've  been 
up  here." 

"  All  the  better,"  said  Miller ;  "  now,  captain,  you  hear ;  we 
may  probably  have  to  go  in  with  three  new  hands ;  they  must 
get  into  your  stroke  this  term,  or  we  shall  be  nowhere." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  captain ;  I'll  give  from  two  till  fm 
any  days  you  like." 

"  And  now  let's  go  and  have  one  pool,"  said  Blake,  getting 
up.  "  Come,  captain,  just  one  little  pool  after  all  this  business.*- 

Diogenes  insisted  on  staying  to  play  his  flute ;  Miller  was 
engaged ;  but  the  captain,  with  a  little  coaxing,  was  led  away 
by  Blake,  and  good-naturedly  asked  Tom  to  accompany  them, 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  looking  as  if  he  would  like  it.  So  the 
three  went  off  to  the  billiard-rooms ;  Tom  in  such  spirits  at  the 
chance  of  his  being  tried  in  the  crew,  that  he  hardly  noticed 
the  exceedingly  bad  exchange  which  he  had  in  voluntarily  made 
of  his  new  cap  and  gown  for  a  third-year  cap  with  the  board 
broken  into  several  pieces,  and  a  fusty  old  gown  which  had 
been  about  college  probably  for  ten  generations.  I  wonder 
whether  undergraduate  morality  has  improved  in  this  matter 
of  stealing  caps  and  gowns  as  much  as  I  believe  it  has  in  other 
matters  since  my  time. 

They  found  the  St.  Ambrose  pool-room  full  of  the  fast  set; 
and  Tom  enjoyed  his  game  much,  though  his  three  lives  ~ver<i 
soon  disposed  of.  The  captain  and  Blake  were  the  last  lives 
on  the  board,  and  divided  the  pool  at  Blake's  suggestion.  He 
had  scarcely  the  nerve  for'playing  out  a  single-handed  match 
with  such  an  iron-nerved,  steady  piece  of  humanity  as  the  cap- 
tain, though  he  was  the  more  brilliant  player  of  the  two.  The 
party  then  broke  up,  and  Tom  returned  to  his  rooms ;  and,  when 
he  was  by  himself  again,  his  thoughts  recurred  to  Hardy.  How 
odd,  he  thought,  that  they  never  mentioned  him  for  the  boat ! 
Could  he  have  done  Anything  to  be  ashamed  of?  How  was  it 
that  nobody  seemed  to  know  him,  and  he  to  know  nobody  ? 

Most  readers,  I  doubt  not,  will  think  our  hero  very  green  for 


THE  ST.  AMBROSE  BOAT  CLUB.  45 

being  puzzled  at  so  simple  a  matter ;  and,  no  doubt,  the  steps 
in  the  social  scale  in  England  are  very  clearly  marked  out,  and 
ire  all  come  to  the  appreciation  of  the  gradations  sooner  or 
later.  But  our  hero's  previous  education  must  be  taken  into 
consideration.  He  had  not  been  instructed  at  home  to  worship 
mere  conventional  distinctions  of  rank  or  wealth,  and  had  gone 
to  a  school  which  was  not  frequented  by  persons  of  rank,  and 
where  no  one  knew  whether  a  boy  was  heir  to  a  principality 
or  would  have  to  fight  his  own  way  in  the  world.  So  he  was 
rather  taken  by  surprise  at  what  he  found  to  be  the  state  o* 
things  at  St.  Ambrose's,  and  didn't  easily  realize  it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HARDY,  THE  SERVITOR. 

IT  was  not  long  before  Tom  had  effected  his  object  in  part. 
That  is  to  say,  he  had  caught  Hardy  several  times  in  the  quad- 
rangle coming  out  of  the  Lecture,  Hall,  or  Chapel,  and  had 
fastened  himself  upon  him  ;  often  walking  with  him  even  np 
to  the  door  of  his  rooms.  But  there  matters  ended.  Hardy 
was  very  civil  and  gentlemanly ;  he  even  seemed  pleased  with 
the  volunteered  companionship ;  but  there  was  undoubtedly  a 
coolness  about  him  which  Tom  could  not  make  out.  But,  as 
he  only  liked  Hardy  more,  the  more  he  saw  of  him,  he  very 
soon  made  up  his  mind  to  break  ground  himself,  and  to  make 
a  dash  at  any  rate  for  something  more  than  a  mere  speaking 
acquaintance. 

One  evening  he  had  as  usual  walked  from  hall  with  Hardy 
up  to  his  door,  where  they  stopped  a  moment  talking;  and 
then  Hardy,  half  opening  the  door,  said,  "  Well  good-night ; 
perhaps  we  shall  meet  on  the  river  to-morrow,"  and  was  going 
in,  when  Tom,  looking  him  in  the  face,  blurted  out,  "  I  say, 
Hardy,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  come  in  and  sit  with  you  a  bit." 

"  I  never  ask  a  man  of  our  college  into  my  rooms,"  answered 
the  other,  "but  come  in  by  all  means  if  you  like ;  "  and  so  they 
entered. 

The  room  was  the  worst,  both  in  situation  and  furniture, 
which  Tom  had  yet  seen.  It  was  on  the  ground  floor,  with 
only  one  window,  which  looked  out  into  a  back  yard,  where 
were  the  offices  of  the  college.  All  day,  and  up  to  nine  o'clock 
at  night,  the  yard  and  offices  were  filled  with  scouts;  boys 
cleaning  boots  and  knives;  bed-makers  emptying  slops  and 


46  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

tattling  scandal ;  scullions  peeling  potatoes  and  listening ;  and 
the  butchers'  and  green-grocers'  men  who  supplied  the  college, 
and  loitered  about  to  gossip  and  get  a  taste  of  the  college — all 
before  going  about  their  business.  The  room  was  large,  but 
low  and  close,  and  the  floor  uneven.  The  furniture  did  not 
add  to  the  cheerfulness  of  the  apartment.  It  consisted  of  one 
large  table  in  the  middle,  covered  with  an  old  checkered  table- 
cloth, and  an  Oxford  table  near  the  window,  on  which  lay  half 
a  dozen  books  with  writing  materials.  A  couple  of  plnir. 
Windsor  chairs  occupied  the  two  sides  of  the  fireplace,  anc 
half  a  dozen  common  wooden  chairs  stood  against  the  opposite 
wall,  three  on  each  side  of  a  pretty  well-filled  bookcase ;  while 
an  old  rickety  sofa,  covered  with  soiled  chintz,  leaned  against 
the  wall  which  fronted  the  window,  as  if  to  rest  its  lame  leg. 
?he  carpet  and  rug  were  dingy,  and  decidedly  the  worse  for 
»7ear ;  and  the  college  had  evidently  neglected  to  paper  the 
room  or  whitewash  the  ceiling  for  several  generations.  On 
the  mantelpiece  reposed  a  few  long  clay  pipes  and  a  brown 
earthenware  receptable  for  tobacco,  together  with  a  japanned 
lin  case,  shaped  like  a  figure  of  eight,  the  use  of  which  puzzled 
Tom  exceedingly.  One  modestly  framed  drawing  of  a  ten-gun 
drig  hung  above,  and  at  the  side  of  the  fireplace  a  sword  and 
belt.  All  this  Tom  had  time  to  remark  by  the  light  of  the 
fire,  which  was  burning  brightly  while  his  host  produced  a 
ccuple  of  brass  candlesticks  from  his  cupboard  and  lighted  up, 
and  drew  the  curtain  before  his  window.  Then  Tom  instinct- 
ively left  off  taking  notes,  for  fear  of  hurting  the  other's  feel- 
ings (just  as  he  would  have  gone  on  doing  so,  and  making  re-- 
marks on  everything,  had  the  rooms  been  models  of  taste  and 
comfort),  and  throwing  his  cap  and  gown  on  the  sofa,  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  Windsor  chairs. 

"  What  a  jolly  chair,"  said  he  ;  "  where  do  you  get  them  ? 
I  should  like  to  "buy  one." 

"  Yes,  they're  comfortable  enough,"  said  Hardy,  "  but  the 
reason  I  have  them  is  that  they're  the  cheapest  arm-chairs  one 
can  get ;  I  like  an  arm-chair,  and  can't  afford  to  have  »ny 
other  than  these." 

Tom  dropped  the  subject  of  the  chairs  at  once,  following  hia 
instinct  again,  which  sad  to  say,  was  already  teaching  him  that 
poverty  is  a  disgrace  to  a  Briton,  and  that,  until  you  know  a 
man  thoroughly,  you  must  always  seem  to  assume  that  he  ia 
the  owner  of  unlimited  ready  money.  Somehow  or  another  he 
began  to  feel  embarrassed,  and  couldn't  think  of  anything  to 
say,  as  his  host  took  down  the  pipes  and  tobacco  from  the 
mantelpiece,  and  placed  them  on  the  table.  However,  any 
thing  was  better  than  silence  :  so  he  began  again. 


HARDY,  THE  SERVITOR.  47 

"Very  good-sized  rooms  yours  seem,"  said  he,  taking  up  a 
pipe  mechanically. 

"  Big  enough,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  the  other, 
**  but  very  dark  and  noisy  in  the  daytime." 

"  So  I  should  think,"  said  Tom ;  "  do  you  know,  I'd  sooner 
now  have  my  freshman's  rooms  up  in  the  garrets.  I  wonder 
you  don't  change." 

"I  get  these  for  nothing,"  said  his  host,  putting  hig  tang 
clay  to  the  candle,  and  puffing  out  volumes  of  smoke.  Tom 
was  stumped  again,  and  felt  more  and  more  unequal  to  the 
situation — so  began  filling  his  pipe  in  silence.  The  first  whiff 
made  him  cough,  as  he  wasn't  used  to  the  fragrant  weed  in 
this  shape. 

u  I'm  afraid  you  don't  smoke  tobacco,"  said  his  host  from 
behind  his  own  cloud ;  "  shall  I  go  out  and  fetch  you  a  cigar  ? 
I  don't  smoke  them  myself ;  I  can't  afford  it." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  blushing  for  shame,  as  if  he 
had  come  there  only  to  insult  his  host,  and  wishing  himself 
heartily  out  of  it ;  "  I've  got  my  case  here  ;  and  the  fact  is  I 
will  smoke  a  cigar  if  you'll  allow  me,  for  I'm  not  up  to  pipes 
yet.  I  wish  you'd  take  some,"  he  went  on,  emptying  his  cigars 
on  the  table. 

"Thank'ee,"  replied  his  host,  "I  prefer  a  pipe.  And  now 
what  will  you  have  to  drink  ?  I  don't  keep  wine,  but  I  can 
get  a  bottle  of  anything  you  like  from  the  common  room. 
That's  one  of  our  privileges," — he  gave  a  grim  chuckle  as  he 
emphasized  the  word  "  our." 

"  Who  on  earth  are  we?"  thought  Tom;  "servitors,  I  sup- 
pose," for  he  knew  already  that  undergraduates  in  general 
could  not  get  wine  from  the  college  cellars. 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw  about  wine,"  said  he,  feeling  very  hot 
about  the  ears :  "  a  glass  of  beer,  or  anything  you  have  here 
— or  tea." 

"  Well,  I  can  give  you  a  pretty  good  glass  of  whiskey,"  said 
his  host,  going  to  the  cupboard,  and  producing  a  black  bottle, 
two  tumblers  of  different  sizes,  some  little  wooden  toddy  ladles, 
and  sugar  in  an  old  cracked  glass. 

Tom  vowed  that,  if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  he 
liked  more  than  another,  it  was  whiskey ;  and  began  measur- 
ing out  the  liquor  carefully  into  his  tumbler,  and  rolling  it 
round  between  his  eye  and  the  candle,  and  smelling  it,  to  show 
what  a  treat  it  was  to  him ;  while  his  host  put  the  kettle  on 
the  fire,  to  ascertain  that  it  was  quite  boiling,  and  then,  as  it 
spluttered  and  fizzed,  filled  up  the  two  tumblers,  and  restored 
it  to  its  place  on,  the  hob. 


48  TOM  BROWS'  AT  OXFORD. 

Tom.  swallowed  some  of  the  mixture,  which  nearly 
made  him  cough  again — for,  though  it  was  very  good,  it 
was  also  very  potent;  however,  by  an  effort  he  managed 
to  swallow  his  cough ;  he  would  about  as  soon  have  lost  a  little 
finger  as  let  it  out.  Then,  to  his  great  relief,  his  host  took  the 
pipe  from  his  lips  and  inquired,  "  How  do  you  like  Oxford  ?  " 

"I  hardly  know  yet,"  said  Tom;  "the  first  few  days  I  was 
delighted  with  going  about  and  seeing  the  buildings,  and  find- 
ing out  who  had  lived  in  each  of  the  old  colleges,  and  potter- 
ing about  in  the  Bodleian,  and  fancying  I  should  like  to  be  a 
great  scholar.  Then  I  met  several  old  school-fellows  going 
about,  who  are  up  at  other  colleges,  and  went  to  their  rooms 
and  talked  over  old  times.  But  none  of  my  very  intimate 
friends  are  up  yet,  and  unless  you  care  very  much  about  a  man 
already,  you  don't  seem  to  be  likely  to  get  intimate  with  him 
up  here,  unless  he  is  at  your  own  college." 

He  paused  as  if  expecting  an  answer. 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Hardy ;  "  but  I  never  was  at  a  public 
school,  unluckily,  and  so  am  no  judge." 

"  Well,  then,  as  to  the  college  life,"  went  on  Tom,  "  it's  all 
very  well  as  far  as  it  goes.  There's  plenty  of  liberty,  and  good 
food.  And  the  men  seem  nice  fellows — many  of  them  at  least, 
as  far  as  I  can  judge.  But  I  can't  say  that  I  like  it  as  much 
as  I  like  our  school  life." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Hardy.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  hardly  know,"  said  Tom,  laughing ;  "  I  don't  seem 
as  if  I  had  anything  to  do  here ;  that's  one  reason,  I  think. 
And  then,  you  see,  at  Rugby  I  was  rather  a  great  man.  There 
one  had  a  share  in  the  ruling  of  three  hundred  boys,  and  a 
good  deal  of  responsibility.  But  here  one  has  only  just  to  take 
care  of  one's  self,  and  keep  out  of  scrapes  ;  and  that's  what  I 
never  could  do.  What  do  you  think  a  fellow  ought  to  do  now 
up  here  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  don't  see  much  difficulty  in  that,"  said  his  host, 
smiling;  "get  up  your  lectures  well,  to  begin  with." 

"  But  my  lectures  are  a  farce,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I've  done  all  the 
books  over  and  over  again.  They  don't  take  me  an  hour  a 
day  to  get  up." 

"Well,  then,  set  to  work  reading  something  regularly — 
reading  for  your'  degree,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  hang  it !  f  can't  look  so  far  forward  as  that ;  I  sha'n't 
be  going  up  for  three  years." 

"  You  can't  begin  too  early.  You  might  go  and  talk  to  your 
college-tutor  about  it." 

"  So  I  did,"   said  Tom  ;  "  at  least  I  meant  to  do  it.     For  he 


HAEDY,  THE  SERVITOR.  49 

asked  me  and  two  other  freshmen  to  breakfast  the  other  morn- 
ing, and  I  was  going  to  open  out  to  him.  But  when  I  got 
there  I  was  quite  shut  up.  He  never  looked  one  of  us  in  the 
face,  and  talked  in  set  sentences,  and  was  cold,  and  formal,  and 
condescending.  The  only  bit  of  advice  he  gave  us  was  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  boating — just  the  one  thing  which  I  feel  a 
real  interest  in.  I  couldn't  get  out  a  word  of  what  I  vante<3 
to  say." 

"  It  is  unlucky,  certainly,  that  our  present  tutors  take  so 
little  interest  in  anything  which  the  men  care  about.  But  it  if 
rucie  from  shyness  than  anything  else,  that  manner  which  yon 
noticed.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  was  more  wretched  and 
embarrassed  than  any  of  you." 

*'  Well,  but  now  I  should  really  like  to  know  what  yon  did 
yourself,"  said  Tom ;  "  you  are  the  only  man  of  much  oldei 
standing  than  myself  whom  I  know  at  all  yet — I  mean  I  don't 
know  anybody  else  well  enough  to  talk  about  this  sort  of  thing 
to  them.  What  did  you  do  now,  besides  learning  to  puli,  in 
your  first  year?" 

"  I  had  learnt  to  pull  before  I  came  up  here,"  said  Hardy 
"  I  really  hardly  remember  what  I  did  besides  read.  You  see- 
I  came  up  with  a  definite  purpose  of  reading.  My  father  was. 
very  anxious  that  I  should  be  a  good  scholar.  Then  my  posi- 
tion in  the  college  and  my  poverty  naturally  kept  me  out  of 
jnauy  things  which  other  men  do." 

Tom  flushed  again  at  the  ugly  word,  but  not  so  much  as  at? 
first.  Hardy  couldn't  mind  the  subject,  or  he  would  never  be 
forcing  it  up  at  every  turn,  he  thought. 

"  You  wouldn't  think  it,"  be  began  again,  harping  on  the 
same  string,  "  but  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  I  miss  the  sort  of 
responsibility  I  was  talking  to  you  about.  I  have  no  doubt  I 
shall  get  the  vacin.m  filled  up  before  long,  but  for  the  life  of 
me  1  can't  see  how  yet." 

"You  "will  be  a  very  lucky  fellow  if  you  don't  find  it  quite 
as  much  as  you  can  do  to  keep  yourself  in  order  up  here.  It 
is  about  the  toughest  part  of  a  man's  life,  I  do  believe,  the 
lime  he  has  to  spend  here.  My  university  life  has  been  so 
different  altogether  from  what  yours  will  be,  that  my  experi- 
ence isn't  likely  to  benefit  you." 

"  I  wish  you  would  try  me,  though,"  said  Tom ;  "  you  don't 
know  what  a  teachable  sort  of  fellow  I  am,  if  anybody  will 
take  me  the  right  way.  You  taught  me  to  scull,  you  know ; 
or  at  least  put  me  in  the  way  to  learn.  But  sculling,  and 
rowing,  and  cricket,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  with  such  read- 
ing as  I  am  likely  to  do,  won't  be  enough.  I  feel  sure  of  that 
already." 


50  TOM  BROWN  A2  OXFORD. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will,"  said  Hardy.  "  No  amount  of  physi- 
cal or  mental  work  will  fill  the  vacuum  you  were  talking  of 
just  now.  It  is  the  empty  house  swept  and  garnished,  which 
the  boy  might  have  had  glimpses  of,  but  the  man  finds  yawn- 
ing within  him,  and  which  must  be  filled  somehow.  It's  a 
pretty  good  three  years'  work  to  learn  how  to  keep  the  devils 
out  of  it,  more  or  less,  by  the  time  you  take  your  degree.  At 
least  I  have  found  it  so." 

Hardy  rose  and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  his  room. 
He  was  astonished  at  finding  himself  talking  so  unreservedly 
to  one  of  whom  he  knew  so  little,  and  half  wished  the  words 
recalled.  He  lived  much  alone,  and  thought  himself  morbid 
and  too  self-conscious  ;  why  should  he  be  tilling  a  youngster's 
head  with  puzzles  ?  How  did  he  know  that  they  were  thinking 
of  the  same  thing? 

But  the  spoken  word  cannot  be  recalled ;  it  must  go  on  its 
way  for  good  or  evil ;  and  this  one  set  the  hearer  staring  into 
the  ashes,  and  putting  many  things  together  in  his  head. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  he  broke  silence,  but  at  last 
he  gathered  up  his  thought,  and  said,  "  Well,  I  hope  I  sha'n't 
shirk  when  the  time  comes.  You  don't  think  a  fellow  need 
shut  himself  up  though?  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  be  any  the  bet- 
ter for  that." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  would,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Because,  you  see,"  Tom  went  on  waxing  bolder  and  more 
confidential,  "if  I  were  to  take  to  moping  by  myself,  I 
shouldn't  read  as  you  or  any  sensible  fellow  would  do;  I 
know  that  well  enough.  I  should  just  begin,  sitting  with  my 
legs  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  looking  into  my  own  inside. 
I  see  you  are  laughing,  but  you  know  what  I  mean ;  don't  vou 
now?" 

"Yes;  staring  into  the  vacuum  you  were  talking  of  just 
now ;  it  all  comes  back  to  that,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  does,"  said  Tom;  "and  I  don't  believe  it 
does  a  fellow  a  bit  of  good  to  be  thinking  about  himself  and 
his  own  doings." 

"Only  he  can't  help  himself,"  said  Hardy.  "Let  him 
throw  himself,  as  he  will,  into  all  that  is  going  on  up  here, 
after  all  he  must  be  alone  for  a  great  part  of  his  time — all 
night  at  any  rate — and  when  he  gets  his  oak  sported,  it's  all  up 
with  him.  He  must  be  looking  more  or  less  into  his  own  in- 
side, as  you  call  it." 

"Then  I  hope  he  won't  find  it  as  ugly  a  business  as  I  do.  If 
he  does,  I'm  sure  he  can't  be  worse  employed." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Hardy ;  "  he  can't  learn  anything 
worth  learning  in  any  other  yvy" 


HARDY,  THE  SERVITOR.  61 

"  Oh,  I  like  that !"  said  Tom ;  "it's  worth  learning  how  to 
play  tennis,  ami  how  to  speak  the  truth.  You  can't  learn  either 
by  thinking  about  yourself  ever  so  much." 

"  You  must  know  the  truth  before  you  can  speak  it,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  So  you  always  do  in  plenty  of  time." 

"  How  ?  "  said  Hardy. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom  ;  "  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  \ 
suppose.  I  never,  in  my  ,life,  felt  any  doubt  about  what  I  ought 
to  say  or  do  ;  did  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  yours  is  a  good,  comfortable,  working  belief,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Hardy,  smiling ;  "  and  I  should  advise  you  to  hold 
on  to  it  as  long  as  you  can." 

"  But  you  don't  think  I  can  for  very  long,  eh  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  men  are  very  different.  There's  no  saying.  If 
you  were  going  to  get  out  of  the  self-dissecting  business  alto- 
gether though,  why  should  you  have  brought  the  subject  up  at 
all  to-night?  It  looks  awkward  for  you  ;  doesn't  it?" 

Tom  began  to  feel  rather  forlorn  at  this  suggestion,  and  prob- 
ably betrayed  it  in  his  face,  for  Hardy  changed  the  subject 
suddenly. 

"  How  do  you  get  on  in  the  boat  ?  I  saw  you  going  down 
to-day,  and  thought  the  time  much  better." 

Tom  felt  greatly  relieved,  as  he  was  beginning  to  find  him- 
self in  rather  deep  water ;  so  he  rushed  into  boating  with  great 
zest,  and  the  two  chatted  on  very  pleasantly  on  that  and  other 
like  matters,  of  little  interest  to  the  general  reader. 

The  college  clock  struck  during  a  pause  in  their  talk,  and 
Tom  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Eight  o'clock,  I  declare,"  he  said ;  "  why  I  must  have  been 
here  more  than  two  hours.  I'm  afraid,  now,  you  have  been 
wanting  to  work,  and  I  have  kept  you  from  it  with  my  talk." 

"  No,  it's  Saturday  night.  Besides,  I  don't  get  much  society 
that  I  care  about,  and  so  I  enjoy  it  all  the  more.  Won't  you 
stop  and  have  some  tea?" 

Tom  gladly  consented,  and  his  host  produced  a  somewhat  di- 
lapilated  set  of  crockery,  and  proceeded  to  brew  the  drink 
least  appreciated  at  St.  Ambrose's.  Tom  watched  him  in  si- 
'ence,  much  exercised  in  his  mind  as  to  what  manner  of  man  he 
had  fallen  upon;  very  much  astonished  at  himself  for  having 
opened  out  so  freely,  and  feeling  a  strange  desire  to  know  more 
of  Hardy,  not  unmixed  with  a  sort  of  nervousness  as  to  how  he 
T,vas  to  accomplish  it. 

When  Hardy  sat  down  again  and  began  pouring  out  the  tea, 
curiosity  overcame,  and  he  opened  with — 


52  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  So  you  read  most  nights  after  hall  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  two  or  three  hours ;  longer,  when  I  am  in  a  good 
humor." 

«  What,  all  by  yourself?" 

"  Generally ;  but  once  or  twice  a  week  Grant  comes  in  to 
compare  notes.  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"No;  at  least  he  hasn't  called  on  me.  I  have  just  spoken 
to  him." 

"  He  is  a  very  quiet  fellow,  and  I  dare  say  doesn't  call  on  any 
man  unless  he  knew  something  of  him  before." 

"  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Hardy,  shortly  ;  and  added  after  a  short  pause, 
"  very  few  men  would  thank  me  if  I  did ;  most  would  think  it 
impertinent,  and  I'm  too  proud  to  risk  that." 

Tom  was  on  the  point  of  asking  why  ;  but  the  uncomfortable 
feeling  he  had  nearly  lost  came  back  on  him. 

"  I  suppose  one  very  soon  gets  tired  of  the  wine-and-sup- 
per-party  life,  though  1  own  I  find  it  pleasant  enough  now." 

'•  I  have  never  been  tried,"  said  Hardy ;  "  servitors  are  not 
troubled  with  that  kind  of  thing.  If  they  were,  I  wouldn't 
go  unless  I  could  return  them,  and  that  I  can't  afford." 

"  There  he  goes  again,"  thought  Tom ;  "  why  will  he  be 
throwing  that  old  story  in  my  face  over  and  over  again  ?  he 
can't  think  I  care  about  his  poverty ;  I  won't  change  the  sub- 
ject this  time,  at  any  rate."  And  so  he  said  : — 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  makes  any  real  difference  to 
a  man  in  society  up  here,  whether  he  is  poor  or  rich ;  I  mean, 
of  course,  if  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  good  fellow?" 

"  Yes,  it  does — the  very  greatest  possible.  But  don't  take  my 
word  for  it.  Keep  your  eyes  open  and  judge  for  yourself;  I 
dare  say  I'm  prejudiced  on  the  subject." 

"  Well  I  shan't  believe  it  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Tom  ;  "  you 
know  you  said  just  now  that  you  never  called  on  any  one. 
Perhaps  you  don't  give  men  a  fair  chance.  They  might  be 
glad  to  know  you  if  you  would  let  them,  and  may  think  it's 
your  fault  that  they  don't." 

"  Very  possibly,  said  Hardy ;  "  I  tell  you  not  to  take  my 
word  for  it." 

"  It  upsets  all  one's  ideas  so,"  went  on  Tom  ;  "  why,  Oxford 
ought  to  be  the  place  in  England  where  money  should  count 
for  nothing.  Surely,  now,  such  a  man  as  Jervis,  our  captain, 
has  more  influence  than  all  the  rich  men  in  the  college  put 
together,  and  is  more  looked  up  to?" 

" He's  one  of  a  thousand,"  said  Hardy;  "handsome,  strong, 
good-tempered,  clever,  and  up  to  everything.  Besides,  he 


HARDY,  THE  SERVITOR.  53 

isn't  a  poor  man ;  and  mind,  I  don't  say  that,  if  he  were,  he 
would n  t  be  where  he  is.  I  am  speaking  of  the  rule,  and  not 
of  the  exceptions." 

Here  Hardy's  scout  came  in  to  say  that  the  dean  wanted  to 
speak  to  him.  So  he  put  on  his  cap  and  gown,  and  Tom  rose 
also. 

"  Well  I'm  sorry  to  turn  you  out,"  said  Hardy,  "  and  I'm 
afraid  I've  been  very  surly  and  made  you  very  uncomfortable. 
You  won't  come  back  again  in  a  hurry." 

"  Indeed  I  will  though,  if  you  will  let  mo,"  c>aid  Tom ;  *'•  I 
have  enjoyed  my  evening  immensely." 

"  Then  come  whenever  you  like,"  said  Hardy. 

"But  I  am  afraid  of  interfering  with  your  reading,"  said 
Tom. 

"  Oh !  you  needn't  mind  that ;  I  have  plenty  of  time  on  my 
hands ;  besides,  one  can't  read  all  night,  and  from  eight  to  ten 
you'll  find  me  generally  idle." 

"  Then  you'll  see  me  often  enough.  But  promise  now  to 
turn  me  out  whenever  I  arn  in  the  way." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hardy,  laughing ;  and  so  they  parted  for 
the  time. 

Some  twenty  minutes  afterwards  Hardy  returned  to  his 
room  after  his  interview  with  the  dean,  who  merely  wanted  to 
speak  to  him  about  some  matter  of  college  business.  He  flung 
his  cap  and  gown  on  to  the  sofa,  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  his  room,  at  first  hurriedly,  but  soon  with  his  usual  regu- 
lar tramp.  However  expressive  a  man's  face  may  be,  and 
however  well  you  may  know  it,  it  is  simply  nonsense  to  say 
that  you  can  tell  what  he  is  thinking  about  by  looking  at  it,  as 
many  of  us  are  apt  to  boast.  Still  more  absurd  would  it  be 
to  expect  readers  to  know  what  Hardy  is  thinking  about,  when 
they  have  never  had  the  advantage  of  seeing  his  face  even  in 
a  photograph.  Wherefore,  it  would  seem  that  the  author  is 
bound  on  such  occasions  to  put  his  readers  on  equal  vantage- 
ground  with  himself,  and  not  only  to  tell  them  what  a  man 
does,  but,  so  far  as  may  be,  what  he  is  thinking  about  also. 

His  first  thought  then  was  one  of  pleasure  at  having  been 
sought  out  by  one  who  seemed  to  be  just  the  sort  of  friend  he 
would  like  to  have.  He  contrasted  our  hero  with  the  few  men 
with  whom  he  generally  lived,  and  for  some  of  whom  he  had 
a  high  esteem — whose  only  idea  of  exercise  was  a  two  hours' 
constitutional  walk  in  the  afternoons,  and  whose  life  was 
chiefly  spent  over  books  and  behind  sported  oaks — and  felt 
that  this  was  more  of  a  man  after  his  own  heart.  Then  came 
doubts  whether  his  new  friend  would  draw  back  when  he  had 


54  TOM  BE  0  WN  A  T  OXFORD. 

been  up  a  little  longer,  and  knew  more  of  the  place.  At  any 
rate,  he  had  said  and  done  nothing  to  tempt  him ;  "  if  he 
pushes  the  acquaintance, — and  I  think  he  will,  —  it  will  be 
because  he  likes  me  for  myself.  And  I  can  do  him  good,  too, 
I  feel  sure,"  he  went  on,  as  he  ran  over  rapidly  his  own  life  for 
the  last  three  years.  "  Perhaps  he  won't  flounder  into  all  the 
sloughs  that  I  have  had  to  drag  through  ;  he  will  get  too  much 
of  the  healthy,  active  life  up  here  for  that,  which  I  have  never 
had  ;  but  some  of  them  he  must  get  into.  All  the  companion- 
ship of  boating  and  cricketing,  and  wine  parties  and  supper 
parties,  and  all  the  reading  in  the  world  won't  keep  him  from 
many  a  long  hour  of  mawkishness,  and  discontent,  and  empti- 
ness of  heart ;  he  feels  that  already  himself.  Am  I  sure  of 
that  though  ?  I  may  be  only  reading  myself  into  him.  At 
any  rate,  why  should  I  have  helped  to  trouble  him  before  the 
time?  Was  that  a  friend's  part?  Well,  he  must  face  it,  and 
the  sooner  the  better  perhaps.  At  any  rate,  it  is  done.  But 
what  a  blessed  thing  if  one  can  only  help  a  youngster  like  this 
to  fight  his  way  through  the  cold,  clammy  atmosphere  which 
is  always  hanging  over  him,  and  ready  to  settle  down  on  him — 
can  help  to  keep  some  living  faith  in  him,  that  the  world, 
Oxford,  and  all,  isn't  a  respectable  piece  of  machinery  set  going 
some  centuries  back !  Ah !  it's  an  awful  business,  that  temp- 
tation to  believe,  or  think  you  believe,  in  a  dead  God.  It  has 
nearly  broken  my  back  a  score  of  times.  What  are  all  the 
temptations  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  Devil  to  this?  It 
includes  them  all.  Well,  I  believe  I  can  help  him,  and,  please 
God,  I  will,  if  he  will  only  let  me ;  and  the  very  sight  of  him 
does  me  good  ;  so  I  won'x  believe  we  went  down  the  lasher 
together  for  nothing." 

And  so  at  last  Hardy  finished  his  walk,  took  down  a  book 
from  his  shelves,  which  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  was  Don 
Quixote, — at  any  rate,  I  know  that  the  great  Spaniard  was  an 
especial  favorite  of  his, — and  sat  down  for  an  hour's  enjoyment 
before  turn  ing  in. 

The  reader  very  likely  by  this  time  is  beginning  to  wonder 
which  is  the  odder  or  madder  of  the  two — the  author,  or  his 
St.  Ambrose  servitor.  I  can  only  say  that  I  never  have  asserted 
the  sanity  or  freedom  from  eccentricity  of  either.  If  the 
reader  never  had  any  .such  thoughts  himself,  he  is  a  lucky 
fellow,  and  need  not  mind  them ;  if  he  should  have  had  any 
such,  he  will  know  how  to  sympathize  with  him  who  is  exercis- 
ed with  them,  and  with  him* who  attempts,  however  feebly,  to 
bring  them  out  into  the  light  of  day. 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHIX'tf.       65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKK  WENT 

•*  DRYSDALE,  what's  a  servitor  ?  " 

"  How  the  deuce  should  I  know  ?  " 

This  short,  and  pithy  dialogue  took  place  in  Drysdale's  rooms 
one  evening  soon  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter.  He  and  Tom  were  sitting  alone  there,  for  a  wonder, 
and  so  the  latter  seized  the  occasion  to  propound  this  question, 
which  he  had  had  on  his  mind  for  some  time.  He  was  scarcely 
satisfied  with  the  above  rejoinder,  but  while  he  was  thinking 
how  to  corne  at  the  subject  by  another  road,  Drysdale  opened 
a  morocco  fly-book,  and  poured  its  contents  on  the  table,  which 
was  already  covered  with  flies  of  all  sorts  and  patterns,  hanks 
of  gut,  delicate  made-up  casts,  reels,  minnows,  and  tackle 
enough  to  kill  all  the  fish  in  the  four  neighboring  counties. 
Tom  began  turning  them  over  and  scrutinizing  the  dressings 
of  the  flies. 

"  It  has  been  so  mild,  the  fish  must  be  in  season,  don't  you 
think?  Besides,  if  they're  not,  it's  a  jolly  drive  to  Fairford, 
at  any  rate.  You've  never  been  behind  my  team,  Brown. 
You'd  better  come,  now,  to-morrow." 

"  Ican't  cut  my  two  lectures." 

"  Bother  your  lectures  !     Put  on  an  seger,  then." 

"  No !  that  doesn't  suit  my  book,  you  know." 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  should  be  so  cursedly  particular. 
Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't ;  I  know  that  well  enough.  But 
what  cast  should  you  fish  with  to-morrow?" 

"  How  many  flies  do  you  use  ?  " 

*  Sometimes  two,  sometimes  three." 

"  Two's  enough,  I  think  ;  all  depends  on  the  weather ;  but, 
if  it's  at  all  like  to-day,  you  can't  do  better,  I  should  think, 
than  the  old  March  brown  and  a  palmer  to  begin  with.  Then, 
for  change,  this  hare's  ear,  and  an  alder  fly,  perhaps  ;  or, — let 
me  see,"  and  he  began  searching  the  glittering  heap  to  select  a 
color  to  go  with  the  dull  hare's  ear. 

"  Isn't  it  early  for  the  alder  ?  "  said  Drysdale. 

"  Rather,  perhaps ;  but  they  can't  resist  it." 

"These  bang-tailed  little  sinners  any  good?"  Baid  Drysdale, 
throwing  some  cock-a-bondies  across  the  table. 

"  Yes ;  I  never  like  to  be  without  them,  and  a  governor  or 


56  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFCRZt. 

two.  Here,  this  is  a  well-tied  lot,"  s;ud  Tom,  picking  out  hal* 
a  dozen.  "  You  never  know  when  you  may  not  kill  Avith  either 
of  them.  But  I  don't  know  the  Fairford  water ;  so  my  opinion 
isn't  worth  much." 

More  talk  of  a  like  kind  went  on,  not  interesting  to  the 
general  reader.  And  you,  O  reader!  who  are  a  fisherman, 
to  whom  my  heart  warms  as  I  pen  these  lines,  do  you  not 
know  it  all  as  well  as  I  ?  The  delight  of  sitting  handling 
tackle  and  talking  fishing  talk,  though  you  mayn't  get  three 
days'  fishing  a  year;  the  difficulty  you  have  in  advising  any 
brother  of  the  craft  to  leave  a  single  well-tied  taking-looking 
fly  out  of  his  book,  though  you  know,  from  experience,  that  it 
would  be  probably  better  for  him  if  he  had  only  some  four  or 
five  flies  in  the  Avorld.  Well,  after  thirty,  or  thereabouts,  we 
must  all,  I  suppose,  lay  our  account  to  enjoying  such  things 
mostly  in  talk.  It  is  a  real  pleasure,  though,  to  go  on  talking, 
and  so  enjoying  by  anticipation  splendid  days  of  salmon-fishing 
and  hunting  though  they  never  really  arrive. 

When  the  conversation  flagged,  Tom  returned  to  the  old 
topic. 

"  But  now,  Drysdale,  you  must  know  what  a  servitor  is  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  Do  you  mean  one  of  our  college  ser- 
vitors?" 

"Yes." 

"  Oh !  something  in  the  upper-servant  line.  I  should  pnt 
him  above  the  porter,  nnd  below  the  cook  and  butler.  He 
does  the  dons'  dirty  work,  and  gets  their  broken  victuals ;  and 
I  believe  he  pays  no  college  fees." 

Tom  rather  drew  into  himself  at  this  insolent  and  off-hand 
definition.  He  was  astonished  and  hurt  at  the  tone  of  his 
friend.  However,  presently,  he  resolved  to  go  through  with  it, 
and  began  again. 

"  But  servitors  are  gentlemen,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal  of  the  cock-tail  about  them,  I  should  think. 
But  I  have  not  the  honor  of  any  acquaintance  amongst  them." 

"At  any  rate,  they  are  undergraduates;  are  not  they?" 

"Yes" 

"  And  may  take  degrees,  just  like  you  or  me  ?  " 

"  They  may  have  all  the  degrees  to  themselves,  for  anything 
I  care.  I  wish  they  would  let  one  pay  a  servitor  for  passing 
little-go  for  one.  It  would  be  deuced  comfortable.  I  wonder 
it  don't  strike  the  dons,  now;  they  might  get  clever  beggars 
for  servitors,  and  farm  them,  and  so  make  loads  of  tin." 

"But,  Drysdale,  seriously,  why  should  you  talk  like  that? 
If  they  can  take  all  the  degrees  we  can,  and  are,  in  fact,  just 


HOW  DRY SD ALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING         57 

what  we  are,  undergraduates,  I  can't  see  why  they're  not  as 
likely  to  be  gentlemen  as  we.  It  can  surely  make  no  difference, 
their  being  poor  men  ?  " 

"  It  must  make  them  devilish  uncomfortable,"  said  the  in- 
corrigible payer  of  double  fees,  getting  up  to  light  his  cigar. 

"  The  name  ought  to  carry  respect  here,  at  any  rate.  The 
Black  Prince  was  an  Oxford  man,  and  he  thought  the  noblest 
motto  he  could  take  was  '  Ich  dien,'  I  serve." 

"  If  he  were  here  now,  he  would  change  it  for  *  Je  paye.'" 

"  I  often  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  really  and  truly 
think,  Drysdale." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  telling  you  what  I  do  really  think. 
Whatever  the  Black  Prince  might  be  pleased  to  observe  if  he 
were  here,  I  stick  to  my  motto.  I  tell  you  the  thing  to  be 
able  to  do  here  at  Oxford  is — to  pay." 

« I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't." 

"I  don't  believe  you  do,  either." 

"I  do,  though.  But  what  makes  you  so  curious  about  ser» 
vitors  ?  " 

"  Why,  I've  made  friends  with  Hardy,  one  of  our  servitors. 
He  is  such  a  fine  fellow ! " 

I  am  sorry  to  relate  that  it  cost  Tom  an  effort  to  say  this  to 
Drysdale  ;  but  he  despised  himself  that  it  was  so. 

"  You  should  have  told  me  so  before  you  began  to  pump 
me,"  said  Drysdale.  "  However,  I  partly  suspected  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  You've  a  good  bit  of  a  Quixote  in  you. 
But  really,  Brown,"  he  added,  seeing  Tom  redden  and  look 
angry,  "  I'm  sorry  if  what  I  said  pained  you.  I  dare  say  this 
friend  of  yours  is  a  gentleman,  and  all  you  say." 

"  He  is  more  of  a  gentleman  by  a  long  way  than  most  of 
the—" 

" '  Gentlemen-commoners,*  you  were  going  to  say.  Don't 
crane  at  such  a  small  fence  on  my  account.  I  will  put  it  in 
another  way  for  you.  He  can't  be  a  greater  snob  than  many 
of  them." 

"  Well,  but  why  do  you  live  with  them  so  much,  then  ?  " 

"Why?  Because  they  happen  to  do  the  things  I  like  doing, 
and  live  up  here  as  I  like  to  live.  I  like  hunting  and  driving, 
and  drawing  badgers  and  playing  cards,  and  good  wines  and  ci- 
gars. They  hunt  and  drive,  and  keep  dogs  and  good  cellars, 
and  will  play  unlimited  loo  or  Van  John  as  long  as  I  please." 

"But  I  know  you  get  very  sick  of  all  that  often,  for  I've 
heard  you  say  as  much  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  little  tune  I've 
been  here." 


58  TOM  BROW1T  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Why,  you  don't  want  to  deny  me  the  Briton's  privilege  of 
grumbling,  do  you  ?  "  said  Drysdale,  as  he  flung  his  legs  up  on 
the  sofa,  crossing  one  over  the  other  as  he  lounged  on  his  back 
— his  favorite  attitude  ;  "  but  suppose  I  am  getting  tired  of  it 
all — which  I'm  not — what  do  you  propose  as  a  substitute  ?  " 

"  Take  to  boating.  I  know  you  could  be  in  the  first  boat  if 
you  liked ;  I  heard  them  say  so  at  Smith's  wine  the  other  night." 

"But  what's  to  prevent  my  getting  just  as  tired  of  that? 
Besides,  it's  such  a  grind.  And  then  there's  the  bore  of  chang- 
ing all  one's  habits." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  such  splendid  hard  work,"  said  Tom,  who  was 
bent  OH  making  a  convert  of  his  friend. 

"  Just  so  ;  and  that's  just  what  I  don't  want ;  the '  books,  nnd 
work,  and  healthful  play  '  line  don't  suit  my  complaint.  No ; 
as  my  old  uncle  says,  '  a  young  fellow  must  sow  his  wild  oats,' 
and  Oxford  seems  a  place  specially  set  apart  by  Providence  for 
that  operation." 

In  all  the  wide  range  of  accepted  British  maxims  there  is 
none,  take  it  for  all  in  all,  more  thoroughly  abominable  than 
this  one  as  to  the  sowing  of  wild  oats.  Look  at  it  on  what  side 
you  will,  and  I  will  defy  you  to  make  anything  but  a  devil's 
maxim  of  it.  What  a  man — be  he  young,  old,  or  middle-aged 
— sows,  that,  and  nothing  else,  shall  he  reap.  The  one  only 
thing  to  do  with  wild  oats,  is  to  put  them  carefully  into  the  hot- 
test part  of  the  fire,  and  get  them  burnt  to  dust,  every  seed  oi 
them.  If  you  sow  them,  no  matter  in  what  ground,  up  they 
will  come,  with  long,  tough  roots  like  couch-grass,  and  luxu- 
riant stalks  and  leaves,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  sun  in  heaven — a 
crop  which  it  turns  one's  heart  cold  to  think  of.  The  Devil, 
too,  whose  special  crop  they  are,  will  see  that  they  thrive,  and 
you,  and  nobody  else,  will  have  to  reap  them ;  and  no  common 
reaping  will  get  them  out  of  the  soil,  which  must  be  dug  down 
deep  again  and  again.  Well  for  you  if  with  all  your  care  you 
can  make  the  ground  sweet  again  by  your  dying  day.  "  Boys 
will  be  boys"  is  not  much  better,  but  that  has  a  true*  side  to  it; 
but  this  encouragement  to  the  sowing  of  wild  oats  is  simply 
devilish,  for  it  means  that  a  young  man  is  to  give  way  to  the 
temptatioBS  and  follow  the  lusts  of  his  age.  What  are  we  to 
do  with  the  wild  oats  of  manhood  and  old  age — with  ambition, 
over-reaching,  the  false  weights,  hardness,  suspicion,  avarice — 
if  the  wild  oats  of  youth  are  to  be  sown  and  not  burnt?  What 
possible  distinction  can  we  draw  between  them  ?  If  we  may 
sow  the  one,  why  not  the  other  ?  However  (as  I  have  been  re- 
minded— perhaps  not  without  reason,  certainly  in  the  kindest 
manner — on  several  occasions),  I  am  writing  the  story  of  a  life 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.        59 

or  rather  of  part  of  a  life,  and  not  sermons  ;  and  though  I  pro- 
test  against  the  critical  law,  that  a  writer  of  fiction  ought  to 
confine  himself  to  trying  to  amuse,  I  would  much  rather  pro- 
duce such  truth  as  there  is  in  me,  and  such  faith  as  I  hold  and 
desire  to  see  spreading,  by  means  of  the  characters  in  my  story, 
than  in  the  shape  of  comment  in  my  own  person.  Only  in  try. 
ing  to  do  so  I  am  often  met  by  another  critical  law,  which 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  higher  and  sounder  one  than  the  others 
viz.,  that  an  author  has  no  right  to  get  behind  his  characters 
and  pour  out  of  their  mouths  opinions  and  speculations  on  deep- 
ly interesting  questions  in  which  he  has  just  dabbled  enough 
to  feel  their  attraction,  without  having  ever  come  on  firm  ground 
or  made  up  his  mind.  I  feel  that  the  critic  is  right  in  bring- 
ing me  to  book,  and  saying,  Come  now,  do  you  believe  this  or 
that? 

What  is  a  man  to  do,  then,  who  has  beliefs  and  writes  to 
bring  them  out  ?  You  will  say  doubtless,  dear  reader,  write 
essays,  sermons,  what  you  will,  only  not  fiction.  To  which  I 
would  reply,  Gladly,  O  dear  reader,  would  I  write  essays  or 
sermons,  seeing  that  they  take  less  out  of  one  than  fiction — but 
would  you  read  them  ?  You  know  you  wouldn't.  And  so,  if 
I  sometimes  stray  into  the  pulpit,  I  do  hope  you  won't  be  so 
ungenerous  as  to  skip  my  preachings.  To  drink  all  a  fellow's 
sack  up,  and  then  make  faces  at  his  poor  pennyworth  of  bread, 
is  altogether  unmanly  and  un-British ;  and,  if  you  should  take 
to  indulging  yourself  in  this  manner,  I  shall  begin  to  think  that 
you  are  capable  of  running  away  or  crying  out  for  peace  at  any 
price  when  the  French  shall  have  landed  at  several  points  on 
our  coast  simultaneously. 

But  to  get  back  to  our  story.  Tom  went  away  from  Drys- 
dale's  rooms  that  night,  after  they  had  sorted  all  the  tackle 
which  was  to  accompany  the  fishing  expedition  to  their  satis- 
faction, in  a  disturbed  state  of  mind.  He  was  very  much 
annoyed  at  Drysdale's  way  of  talking,  because  he  was  getting 
to  like  the  man.  He  was  surprised  and  angry  at  being  driven 
more  and  more  to  the  conclusion  that  the  worship  of  the  golden 
calf  was  verily  and  indeed  rampant  in  Oxford — side  by  side, 
no  doubt,  with  much  that  was  manly  and  noble,  but  tainting 
more  or  less  the  whole  life  of  the  place.  In  fact,  what  annoyed 
him  most,  was  the  consciousness  that  he  himself  was  becoming 
an  idolater ;  for  he  couldn't  help  admitting  that  he  felt  much 
more  comfortable  when  standing  in  the  quadrangles  or  strolling 
in  the  High  Street  with  Drysdale  in  his  velvet  cap,  and  silk 
gown,  and  faultless  get-up,  than  when  doing  the  same  things 
with  Hardy  in  his  faded  old  gown,  shabby  loose  overcoat  and 


60  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFO1W. 

well-worn  trousers.  He  wouldn't  have  had  Hardy  suspect  the 
fact  for  all  he  was  worth,  and  hoped  to  get  over  the  feeling 
soon ;  but  there  it  was  unmistakably.  He  wondered  whether 
Hardy  had  ever  felt  anything  of  the  kind  himself. 

Nevertheless,  these  thoughts  did  not  hinder  him  from  sleep- 
ing soundly,  or  from  getting  up  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  to 
go  and  see  Drysdale  start  on  his  expedition. 

Accordingly,  he  was  in  Drysdale's  rooms  next  morning 
betimes,  and  assisted  at  the  early  breakfast  which  was  going 
on  there.  Blake  was  the  only  other  man  present.  He  was 
going  Avith  Drysdale,  and  entrusted  Tom  with  a  message  to 
Miller  and  the  captain,  that  he  could  not  pull  in  the  boat  that 
day,  but  would  pay  a  waterman  to  take  his  place.  As  soon  as 
the  gate  opened,  the  three,  accompanied  by  the  faithful  Jack, 
and  followed  by  Drysdale's  scout,  bearing  overcoats,  a  splendid 
water-proof  apron  lined  with  fur,  and  the  rods  and  creels, 
sallied  out  of  college,  and  sought  the  livery-stables  patronized 
by  the  men  of  St.  Ambrose.  Here  they  found  a  dog-cart  all 
ready  in  the  yard,  with  a  sti'ong  Roman-nosed,  vicious-looking, 
rat-tailed  horse  in  the  shafts,  called  Satan,  by  Drysdale ;  the 
leader  had  been  sent  on  to  the  first  turnpike.  The  things  were 
packed,  and  Jack,  the  bull-dog,  hoisted  into  the  interior  in  a 
few  minutes.  Drysdale  produced  a  long,  straight  horu,  which 
he  called  his  yard  of  tin  (probably  because  it  was  made  of 
brass),  and  after  refreshing  himself  with  a  blast  or  two,  handed 
it  over  to  Blake,  and  then  mounted  the  dog-cart,  and  took  the 
reins.  Blake  seated  himself  by  his  side ;  the  help  who  was 
to  accompany  them,  got  up  behind ;  and  Jack  looked  wisely 
out  from  his  inside  place  over  the  backboard. 

"  Are  we  all  right  ?  "  said  Drysdale,  catching  his  long  tandem 
whip  into  a  knowing  double  thong. 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  the  head  ostler,  touching  his  cap. 
M  You'd  better  have  come,  my  boy,"  said  Drysdale  to  Tom, 
as  they  trotted  off  out  of  the  yard ;  and  Tom  couldn't  help 
envying  them  as  he  followed,  and  watched  the  dog-cart  lessen- 
ing rapidly  down  the  empty  street,  and  heard  the  notes  of  the 
yard  of  tin,  which  Blake  managed  to  make  really  musical, 
borne  back  on  the  soft  western  breeze.  It  was  such  a  stunning 
morning  for  fishing ! 

However,  it  was  too  late  to  repent,  had  he  wished  it ;  and 
so  he  got  back  to  chapel,  and  destroyed  the  whole  effect  of  the 
morning  service  on  Miller's  mind,  by  delivering  Blake's  mes- 
sage to  that  choleric  coxswain  as  soon  as  chapel  was  over. 
Miller  vowed  for  the  twentieth  time  that  Blake  should  be 
turned  out  of  the  boat,  and  went  off  to  the  captain's  rooms  to 
torment  him,  and  consult  what  was  to  be  done. 


IIOW  DRY  SD ALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FI SUING.        61 

The  weather  continued  magnificent — a  soft,  dull,  gray  March 
day,  with  a  steady  wind  ;  and  the  thought  of  the  lucky  fisher- 
men, and  visions  of  creels  filled  with  huge  three-pounders, 
haunted  Tom  at  lecture  and  throughout  the  day. 

At  two  o'clock  he  was  down  at  the  river.  The  college  eight 
was  to  go  down  for  the  first  time  in  the  season  to  the  reaches 
below  Nuneham,  for  a  good  training  pull,  and  he  had  had 
notice,  to  his  great  joy,  that  he  was  to  be  tried  in  the  boat. 
But,  great,  no  doubt,  as  was  the  glory,  the  price  was  a  heavy 
one.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  subjected  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Miller,  the  coxswain,  or  had  pulled  behind 
the  captain  ;  and  it  did  not  take  long  to  convince  him  that  it 
was  a  very  different  style  of  thing  from  anything  he  had  as  yet 
been  accustomed  to  in  the  freshmen's  crew.  The  long,  steady 
sweep  of  the  so-called  paddle  tried  him  almost  as  much  as  the 
breathless  strain  of  the  spurt. 

Miller,  too,  was  in  one  of  his  most  relentless  moods.  He 
was  angry  at  Blake's  desertion,  and  seemed  to  think  that  Tom 
had  had  something  to  do  with  it,  though  he  had  simply  de- 
livered the  message  which  had  been  entrusted  to  him  ;  and  so, 
though  he  distributed  rebuke  and  objurgation  to  every  man  in 
the  boat  except  the  captain,  he  seemed  to  our  hero  to  take 
particular  delight  in  working  him.  There  he  stood  in  the 
stern,  the  fiery  little  coxswain,  leaning  forward  with  a  tiller- 
rope  in  each  hand,  and  bending  to  every  stroke,  shouting  his 
warnings  and  rebukes,  and  monitions  to  Tom,  till  he  drove 
him  to  his  wits'  end.  By  the  time  the  boat  came  back  to 
Hall's,  his  arms  were  so  numb  that  he  could  hardly  tell  whether 
his  oar  was  in  or  out  of  his  hand  ;  his  legs  were  stiff  and  aching, 
and  every  muscle  in  his  body  felt  as  if  it  had  been  pulled  out 
an  inch  or  two.  As  he  walked  up  to  college,  he  felt  as  if  his 
shoulders  and  legs  had  nothing  to  do  with  one  another ;  in 
short  he  had  had  a  very  hard  day's  work,  and,  after  going  fast 
asleep  at  a  wine  party,  and  trying  in  vain  to  rouse  himself  by 
a  stroll  in  the  streets,  fairly  gave  in  about  ten  o'clock,  and  went 
to  bed  without  remembering  to  sport  his  oak. 

For  some  hours  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  dead,  but  at  last 
began  to  be  conscious  of  voices,  and  the  clinking  of  glasses,  and 
laughter,  and  scraps  of  songs  ;  and  after  turning  himself  once 
or  twice  in  bed,  to  ascertain  whether  he  was  awake  or  no, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  sat  up,  and  became  aware  that  something  very 
entertaining  to  the  parties  concerned  was  going  on  in  his  sitting- 
room.  After  listening  for  a  minute,  he  jumped  up,  threw  on 
his  shooting-coat,  appeared  at  the  door  of  his  own  sitting-room, 
where  he  paused  a  moment  to  contemplate  the  scene  which  met 


62  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

his  astonished  vision.  His  fire,  recently  replenished,  was  burn- 
ing brightly  in  the  grate,  and  his  candles  on  the  table,  on  which 
stood  his  whiskey  bottle,  and  tumblers,  and  hot  water.  On 
his  sofa,  which  had  been  wheeled  round  before  the  fire,  reclined 
Drysdale,  on  his  back,  in  his  pet  attitude,  one  leg  crossed  over 
the  other,  \vith  a  paper  in  his  hand,  from  which  he  was 
singing,  and  in  the  arm-chair  sat  Blake,  while  Jack  was  coiled 
on  the  rug,  turning  himself  every  now  and  then  in  a  sort  of 
uneasy  protest  against  his  master  s  untimely  hilarity.  At  first, 
Tom  felt  inclined  to  be  angry,  but  the  jolly  shout  of  laughter 
with  which  Drysdale  received  him,  as  he  stepped  out  into  the 
light  in  night-shirt,  shooting-coat,  and  dishevelled  hair,  took  ali 
the  rile  out  of  him  at  once. 

"  Why  Brown,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  in  bed 
this  last  half-hour?  We  looked  into  the  bedroom,  and  thought 
it  was  empty.  Sit  down,  old  fellow,  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  Have  a  glass  of  grog ;  it's  first-rate  whiskey." 

"  Well,  you're  a  couple  of  cool  hands,  I  must  say,"  said  Tom. 
"  How  did  you  get  in  ?  " 

"  Through  the  door,  like  honest  men,"  said  Drysdale. 
"You're  the  only  good  fellow  in  college  to-night.  When  we 
got  back  our  fires  were  out,  and  we've  been  all  round  college, 
and  found  all  the  oaks  sported  but  yours.  Never  sport  your 
oak,  old  boy  ;  it's  a  bad  habit.  You  don't  know  at  what  time 
in  the  morning  you  may  entertain  angels  unawares." 

"  You're  a  rum  pair  of  angels,  anyhow,"  said  Tom,  taking 
his  seat  on  the  sofa.  "But  what  o'clock  is  it?" 

"  Oh  !  about  half-past  one,"  said  Drysdale.  "  We've  had 
a  series  of  catastrophes.  Never  got  into  college  till  near  one. 
I  thought  we  should  never  have  waked  that  besotted  little 
porter.  However,  here  we  are  at  last,  you  see,  all  right." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  how  about  the  fishing  ?  " 

"  Fishing !  we've  never  thrown  a  fly  all  day,"  said  Drysdale. 

"  He  is  so  cursedly  conceited  about  his  knowledge  of  the 
country,"  struck  in  Blake.  "  What  with  that,  and  his  awful 
twist,  and  incurable  habit  of  gossiping,  and  his  blackguard  dog, 
and  his  team  of  a  devil  and  a  young  female — " 

"Hold  your  scandalous  tongue,"  shouted  Drysdale.  "To 
hear  you  talking  of  my  twist,  indeed ;  you  ate  four  chops  and 
n  whole  chicken  to-day,  at  dinner  to  your  own  cheek,  you 
know." 

"  That's  quite  another  thing,"  said  Blake.  "  I  like  to  see 
a  fellow  an  honest  grubber  at  breakfast  and  dinner  ;  but  you've 
always  got  your  nose  in  the  manger.  That's  how  we  got  all 
wrong  to-day,  Brown.  You  saw  what  a  breakfast  he  ate  before 


HOW  DEYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.        68 

starting  ;  well,  nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  another  at 
Whitney.  There  we  fell  in  with  a  bird  in  mahogany  tops,  and, 
as  usual,  Drysdale  began  chumming  with  him.  He  knew  all 
about  the  fishing  of  the  next  three  counties.  I  dare  say  he  did. 
My  private  belief  is,  that  he  is  one  of  the  Hungerford  town 
council,  who  let  the  fishing  there;  at  any  rate,  he  swore  it  was 
no  use  our  going  to  Fairford ;  the  only  place  where  fish  would 
be  in  season  was  Hungerford.  Of  course,  Drysdale  swallowed 
it  all,  and  nothing  would  serve  him  but  that  we  should  turn  off 
for  Hungerford  at  once.  Now,  I  did  go  once  to  Hungerford 
races,  and  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  we  should  never  get  neat 
the  place.  Not  a  bit  of  use ;  he  knew  every  foot  of  the  country. 
It  was  then  about  nine ;  he  would  guarantee  that  we  should  be 
there  by  twelve,  at  latest." 

"So  we  should  have  been,  but  for  accidents,"  struck  in 
Drysdale. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  what  we  did  was  to  drive  into  Farring- 
don,  instead  of  Hungerford,  both  horses  dead  done  up,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  after  missing  our  way  about  twenty  times." 
"  Because  you  would  put  in  your  oar,"  said  Drysdale. 
"  Then  grub  again,"  went  on  Blake,  "  and  an  hour  to  bait 
the  horses.  I  knew  we  were  as  likely  to  get  to  Jericho  as  to 
Hungerford.  However,  he  would  start ;  but,  luckily,  about  two 
miles  from  Farringdon,  old  Satan  bowled  quietly  into  a  bank, 
broke  a  shaft,  and  deposited  us  then  and  there.  He  wasn't  such 
a  fool  as  to  be  going  to  Hungerford  at  that  time  of  day ;  the 
first  time  in  his  wicked  old  life  that  I  ever  remember  seeing 
him  do  anything  that  pleased  me." 

"  Come  now,"  said  Drysdale,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  you  ever 
sat  behind  a  better  wheeler,  when  he's  in  a  decent  temper?" 

"  Can't  say,"  said  Blake  ;  "  never  sat  behind  him  in  a  good 
temper,  that  I  can  remember." 

"  I'll  trot  him  five  miles  out  and  home  in  a  dog-cart,  on  any 
road  out  of  Oxford,  against  any  horse  you  can  bring,  for  a 
fiver." 

«  Done  ! "  said  Blake. 

"But  were  you  upset?"  said  Tom.  "  How  did  you  get  in- 
to the  bank  ?  " 

"Why,  you  see,"  said  Drysdale,  "Jessy — that's  the  little 
blood-mare,  my  leader — is  very  young,  and  as  shy  and  skittish 
as  the  rest  of  her  sex.  We  turned  a  corner  sharp,  and  came 
right  upon  a  gypsy  encampment.  Up  she  went  into  the  air  in 
a  moment,  and  then  turned  right  round  and  came  head  on  at 
the  cart.  I  gave  her  the  double  thong  across  her  face  to  send 
her  back  again,  and  Satan,  seizing  the  opportunity,  rushed 


64  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

against  the  bank,  dragging  her  with  him,  and  snapped  the  shaft." 

"  And  so  ended  our  day's  fishing,"  said  Blake.  "And  next 
moment  out  jumps  that  brute,  Jack,  and  pitches  into  the 
gypsy's  dog  who  had  come  up  very  naturally  to  have  a  look  at 
what  was  going  on.  Down  jumps  Drysdale,  to  see  that  his 
beast  gets  fair  play,  leaving  me  and  the  help  to  look  after  the 
wreck,  and  keep  his  precious  wheeler  from  kicking  the  cart  in- 
to little  pieces." 

"  Come  now,"  said  Drysdale,  "  you  must  own  we  fell  on  our 
own  legs  after  all.  Hadn't  we  a  jolly  afternoon  ?  I'm  thinking 
of  turning  tramp,  Brown.  We  spent  three  or  four  hours  in  that 
camp,  and  Blake  got  spooney  on  a  gypsy  girl,  and  has  written 
I  don't  know  how  many  songs  on  them.  Didn't  you  hear  us 
singing  them  just  now  ?  " 

"  But  how  did  you  get  the  cart  mended?"  said  Tom. 

"Oh!  the  tinker  patched  up  the  shaft  for  us — a  cunning  old 
beggar,  the  pere  de  famille  of  the  encampment ;  up  to  every 
move  on  the  board.  He  wanted  to  have  a  deal  with  me  for 
Jessy.  But,  'pon  my  honor,  we  had  a  good  time  of  it.  There 
was  the  old  tinkei*,  mending  the  shaft,  in  his  fur  cap,  with  a 
black  pipe,  one  inch  long,  sticking  out  of  his  mouth ;  and  the 
old  brown  parchment  of  a  mother,  with  her  head  in  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, smoking  a  ditto  pipe  to  the  tinker's  who  told  our  for- 
tunes,  and  talked  like  a  printed  book.  Then  there  was  his  wife, 
and  the  slip  of  a  girl  who  bowled  over  Blake  there,  and  half  a 
dozen  ragged  brats;  and  a  fellow  on  tramp,  not  a  gypsy — some 
runaway  apprentice  I  take  it,  but  a  jolly  dog — with  no  luggage 
but  an  old  fiddle,  on  which  he  scraped  away  uncommonly  well, 
and  set  Blake  making  rhymes  as  we  sat  in  the  tent.  You  never 
heard  any  of  his  songs.  Here's  one  for  each  of  us ;  we're  going 
to  get  up  the  characters  and  sing  them  about  the  country ;  new 
for  a  rehearsal ;  I'll  be  the  tinker." 

"  No  ;  you  must  take  the  servant  girl,"  said  Blake. 

"  Well,  we'll  toss  up  for  characters  when  the  time  comes. 
You  begin  then  ;  here's  the  song ; "  and  he  handed  one  of  the 
papers  to  Bla'«te,  who  began  singing  :  — 

"  Squat  on  a  green  plot, 

We  scorn  a  bench  or  settle,  oh! 
Plying  and  trying, 

A  spice  of  every  trade  ; 
Razors  wo  grind, 

Ring  a  pig,  or  mend  a  kettle,  oh ! 
Come,  what  d'ye  lack  ? 
Soeak  it  out,  my  pretty  maid. 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.        66 

"  I'll  set  your  scissors,  while 

My  granny  tells  you  plainly, 
Who  stole  your  barley  meal, 

Your  butter  or  your  heart; 
Tell  if  your  husband  will 

Be  handsome  or  ungainly, 
Ride  in  a  coach  and  four,  or 

Rough  it  in  a  cart." 

"  Enter  Silly  Sally ;  that's  I,  for  the  present,  you  see,"  said 
Drysdale ;  and  he  began — 

"  Oh,  dear !  what  can  the  matter  be? 
Dear,  dear !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh,  dear !  what  can  the  matter  be ! 

All  in  a  pucker  be  I ; 
I'm  growing  uneasy  about  Billy  Martin, 
For  love  is  a  casualty  desperY  unsartin. 
Law !  yonder's  the  gypsies  as  tells  folks'  fortin ; 

I'm  half  in  the  mind  for  to  try." 

"  Then  you  must  be  the  old  gypsy  woman,  Mother  Patrico ; 
here's  your  part,  Brown." 

"  But  what's  the  tune  ?"  said  Tom. 

"  Oh  !  you  can't  miss  it ;  go  ahead  ;  "  and  so  Tom,  who  was 
dropping  into  the  humor  of  the  thing,  droned  out  from  the  MS. 
handed  to  him  — 

"  Chairs  to  mend, 
Old  chairs  to  mend, 
Rush-bottom'd,  cane-bottom'd 
Chairs  to  mend. 
Maid,  approach, 
If  thou  wouldst  know 
What  the  stars 
May  deign  to  show." 

"  Now,  tinker,"  said  Drysdale,  nodding  at  Blake,  who  rattled 
on,— 

"  Chance  feeds  us,  chance  leads  us 

Round  the  land  in  jollity  ; 
Rag-dealing,  nag-stealing, 
Everywhere  we  roam ; 
Brass  mending,  ass  vending, 
Happier  than  the  quality ; 


$6  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Swipes  soaking,  pipes  smoking, 

Ev'ry  barn  a  home  ; 
Tink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

Our  life  is  full  of  fun,  boys; 
Clink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

Our  busy  hammers  ring  ; 
Clink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

Our  job  will  soon  be  done,  boys; 
Then  tune  we  merrily 

The  bladder  and  the  string." 

DKYSDALE,  as  /Silly  Sally. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Dear,  dear!  what  can  the  matter  be? 
Oh,  dear!  what  can  the  matter  be? 

There's  such  a  look  in  her  eye. 
Oh,  lawk  !  I  declare  I  be  all  of  a  tremble  ; 
My  mind  it  misgives  me  about  Sukey  Wimble, 
A  splatter-faced  wench  neither  civil  nor  nimble  £ 
She'll  bring  Billy  to  beggary." 

TOM,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

"Show  your  hand  ; 
Come,  show  your  hand  ! 
Would  you  know 
What  fate  hath  planned? 
Heaven  forefend, 
Ay,  Heav'n  forefend  1 
What  may  these 
Cross-lines  portend? 

BLAKE,  as  t/ie  Tinker. 


l,  pheasant,  all's  pleasant; 

Nothing  comes  amiss  to  us; 
Hare,  rabbit,  snare,  nab  it, 

Cock,  or  hen,  or  kite  ; 
Tom-cat,  with  strong  fat, 

A  dainty  supper  is  to  us  ; 
Hedge-hog  and  sedge-frog 

To  stew  is  our  delight; 
Bow,  wow,  with  angry  bark 

My  lady's  do;:  -ssails  usj 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WENT  FISHING.       ? 

We  sack  him  up,  and  clap 

A  stopper  on  his  din. 
Now,  pop  him  in  the  pot ; 

His  store  of  meat  avails  us ; 
Wife  cooks  him  nice  and  hot, 

And  granny  tans  his  skin." 

DRYSDALE,  as  Silly  Sally. 

Oh,  lawk!  what  a  calamity! 

Oh,  my  !  what  a  calamity  1  . 

Oh,  dear !  what  a  calamity  ! 

Lost  and  forsaken  be  I. 

I'm  out  of  my  senses,  and  naught  will  content  me, 
But  pois'ning  Poll  Ady  who  helped  circumvent  me ; 
Come,  tell  me  the  means,  for  no  power  shall  prevent  mej 
Oh,  give  me  revenge,  or  I  die." 

TOM,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

"  Pause  a  while  ! 
Anon,  anon ! 
Give  me  time 
The  stars  to  con. 
True  love's  course 
Shall  yet  run  smooth ; 
True  shall  prove 
The  favor'd  youth." 

BLAKE,  as  the  Tinker. 

"Tink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

We'll  work  and  then  get  tipsy,  oh! 
Clink  tink,  on  each  chink, 

Our  busy  hammers  ring. 
Tink  tink,  a  tink  a  tink, 

How  merry  lives  a  gypsy,  oh ! 
Chanting  and  ranting ; 

As  happy  as  a  king." 

DRYSDALE,  as  SiUy  Sally. 

u  Joy !  joy !  all  will  end  happily  I 

Joy !  joy !  all  will  end  happily ! 

Joy!  joy!  all  will  end  happily  I 

Bill  will  be  constant  to  L 


68  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Oh,  thankee,  good  dame,  here's  ray  purse  and, 

my  thimble ; 

A  fig  for  Poll  Ady  and  fat  Sukey  Wimble, 
I  now  could  jump  over  the  steeple  so  nimble; 
With  joy  I  be  ready  to  cry." 

TOM,  as  Mother  Patrico. 

"  William  shall 

Be  rich  and  great; 
•  And  shall  prove 

A  constant  mate; 
Thank  not  me, 
But  thank  your  fate, 
On  whose  high 
Decrees  I  wait." 

"Well,  won't  that  do  ?  won't  it  bring  the  house  down  ?  Pro 
going  to  send  for  dresses  from  London,  and  we'll  start  next 
week." 

"  What,  on  the  tramp,  singing  these  songs?" 

"  Yes;  we'll  begin  in  some  out-of-the-way  place  till  we  get 
used  to  it." 

"  And  end  in  the  lock-up,  I  should  say,"  said  Tom  ;  "  it'll  be 
a  good  lark,  though.  Now,  you  haven't  told  me  how  you  got 
home." 

"  Oh !  we  left  camp  at  about  five — " 

"  The  tinker  having  extracted  a  sovereign  from  Drysdale,'' 
interrupted  Blake. 

"  What  did  you  give  to  the  little  gypsy  yourself?"  retorted 
Drysdale;  "I  paw  your  adieus  under  the  thorn-bush. — Well, 
we  got  on  all  right  to  old  Murdoch's,  at  Kingston  Inn,  by  about 
seven,  and  there  we  had  dinner ;  and  after  dinner  the  old  boy 
came  in  ;  he  and  I  are  great  chums,  for  I'm  Dften  there  ami 
always  ask  him  in.  But  that  beggar  Blake,  who  Tieversaw  him 
before,  cut  me  clean  out  in  five  minutes.  Fancy  his  swearing 
he  is  Scotch,  and  that  an  ancestor  of  his  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury married  a  Murdoch  ! " 

'•*  Well,  when  you  come  to  think  what  a  lot  of  ancestors  one 
must  have  had  at  that  time,  it's  probably  true,"  said  Blake. 

"  At  any  rate,  it  took,"  went  on  Drysdale.  "  I  thought  old 
Murdoch  would  have  wept  on  his  neck.  As  it  was,  he  scat, 
tered  snuff  enough  to  fill  a  pint  pot  over  him  out  of  his  mull, 
and  began  talking  Gaelic.  And  Blake  had  the  cheek  to  jabber 
a  lot  of  gibberish  back  to  him,  as  if  he  understood  every  word. 


HOW  DRYSDALE  AND  BLAKE  WEA'T  FlsUUM.       69 

"  Gibberish !  it  was  the  purest  Gaelic,"  said  Blake,  laughls  v. 

"  I  heard  a  lot  of  Greek  words  myself,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  but 
old  Murdoch  was  too  pleased  at  hearing  his  own  clapper  going, 
and  too  full  of  whiskey,  to  find  him  out." 

"Let  alone  that  I  doubt  whether  he  remembers  more  than 
about  five  words  of  his  native  tongue  himself,"  said  Blake. 

"  The  old  boy  got  so  excited  that  he  went  up-stairs  for  his 
plaid  and  dirk,  and  dressed  himself  up  in  them,  apologizing 
that  he  could  not  appear  in  the  full  garb  of  old  Gaul,  in  honor 
of  his  new-found  relative,  as  his  daughter  had  cut  up  his  old 
kilt  for  *  trews  for  the  bairnies '  during  his  absence  from  home. 
Then  they  took  to  more  toddy  and  singing  Scotch  songs,  till 
at  eleven  o'clock  they  were  standing  on  their  chairs,  right  hands 
clasped,  each  with  one  foot  on  the  table,  glasses  in  the  other 
hands,  the  toddy  flying  over  the  room  as  they  swayed  about, 
roaring  like  maniacs,  what  was  it  ? — oh !  1  have  it. 

" '  If^-an-toorey  all  agree, 

"  *  TFw<7-au-toorey,  wug-au-toorey.1  " 

"  He  hasn't  told  you  that  he  tried  to  join  us,  and  tumbled 
over  the  back  of  his  chair  into  the  dirty -plate  basket." 

"  A  libel !  a  libel ! "  shouted  Drysdale ;  "  the  leg  of  my  chair 
broke,  and  I  stepped  down  gracefully  and  safely,  and  when  I 
looked  up  and  saw  what  a  tottery  performance"  it  was,  I  con- 
cluded to  give  them  a  wide  berth,  it  would  be  no  joke  to 
have  old  Murdoch  topple  over  on  to  you.  I  left  them  '  wug-an- 
tooreying,'  and  went  out  to  look  after  the  trap,  which  was  or- 
dered to  be  at  the  door  at  half-past  ten.  I  found  Murdoch's 
ostler  very  drunk,  but  sober,  compared  with  that  rascally  help 
whom  we  had  been  fools  enough  to  take  with  us.  They  had 
got  the  trap  out  and  the  horses  in,  but  that  old  rascal,  Satan, 
Was  standing  so  quiet  that  I  suspected  something  wrong.  Sure 
enough,  when  I  came  to  look,  they  had  him  up  to  the  cheek  on 
one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  third  bar  on  the  other,  his  belly- 
band  buckled  across  his  back,  and  no  kicking  strap.  The  old 
brute  was  chuckling  to  himself  what  he  would  do  with  us  as 
soon  as  we  had  started  in  that  trim.  It  took  half  an  hour 
getting  all  right,  as  I  was  the  only  one  able  to  do  anything." 

"  Yes,  you  would  have  said  so,"  said  Blake,  "  if  you  had 
seen  him  trying  to  put  Jack  up  behind.  He  made  six  shots 
with  the  old  dog,  and  dropped  him  about  on  his  head  and  the 
bi'oad  of  his  back  as  if  he  had  been  a  bundle  of  eels." 

"  The  fact  is  that,  that  rascally  ostler  had  made  poor  old 
Jack  drunk  too,"  exclaimed  Drysdale,  "  and  he  wouldn't  be 
lifted  straight.  However,  we  got  off  at  last,  and  hadn't  gone 
a  mile  before  the  help  (who  was  maundering  away  some  cursed 


70  TOM  BRO FFJV  AT  OXFORD. 

sentimental  ditty  or  other  behind)  lurched  more  heavily  than 
usual,  and  pitched  off  into  the  night,  somewhere.  Blake  looked 
for  him  for  half  an  hour,  and  couldn't  find  a  hair  of  him." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  the  man  tumbled  off  and  you  never 
found  him  ?  "  said  Tom,  in  horror. 

"  Well,  that's  about  the  fact,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  but  it  ain't 
so  bad  as  you  think.  We  had  no  lamps,  and  it  was  an  un- 
common bad  night  for  running  by  holloas." 

"  But  a  first-rate  night  for  running  by  scent,"  broke  in  Blake, 
u  the  fellow  leant  against  me  until  he  made  Ins  exit,  and  I'd 
have  backed  myself  to  have  hit  the  scent  again  half  a  mile  off, 
if  the  wind  had  only  been  right." 

"  He  may  have  broken  his  neck,"  said  Tom. 

"  Can  a  fellow  sing  with  a  broken  neck?"  said  Drysdale  ; 
"  hanged  if  I  know  !  But  don't  I  tell  you  we  heard  him 
maundering  on  somewhere  or  other  ?  .and,  when  Blake  shouted 
he  answered  in  endearing  terms  ;  and,  when  Blake  swore,  he 
rebuked  him  piously  out  of  the  pitch  darkness,  and  told  him  to 
go  home  and  repent.  I  nearly  dropped  off  the  box  for  laughing 
at  them  ;  and  then  he  *  up-lifted  his  testimony,'  as  he  called  it, 
against  me  for  driving,  a  horse  called  Satan.  I  believe  he's  a 
ranting  Methodist  spouter." 

"  I  tried  hard  to  find  him,"  said  Blake,  "  for  I  should  dearly 
have  liked  to  have  kicked  him  safely  into  the  ditch." 

"  At  last,  Black  Will  himself  couldn't  have  held  Satan  another 
minute.  So  Blake  scrambled  up,  and  away  we  came,  find 
knocked  into  college  at  one  for  a  finish  :  the  rest  you  know." 

"  Well,  you've  had  a  pretty  good  day  of  it,"  said  Tom,  who 
had  been  hugely  amused  ;  "  but  I  should  feel  nervous  about 
the  help,  if  I  were  you." 

"  Oh !  he'll  come  to  no  grief,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  Drysdale  ,• 
"  but  what  o'clock  is  it  ?  " 

"  Three,"  said  Blake,  looking  at  his  watch  and  getting  up  ; 
"  time  to  turn  in." 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  heard  you  say  that,"  said  Drysdale. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  forgot  we  were  up  this  morning  before  the 
world  was  aired.  Good-night,  Brown." 

And  off  the  two  went,  leaving  Tom  to  sport  his  oak  this  time 
and  retire  in  wonder  to  bed. 

Drysdale  was  asleep  with  Jack  curled  up  on  the  foot  of  the 
bed  in  ten  minutes.  Blake,  by  the  help  of  wet  towels  and  a 
knotted  piece  of  whipcord  round  his  forehead,  read  Pindar  till 
the  chapel  bell  began  to  ring. 


AN  EXPLOSION.  71 


CHAPTER 

AN  EXPLOSION. 

OUB  hero  soon  began  to  feel  that  he  was  contracting  his  first 
serious  college  friendship.  The  great,  strong,  badly  dressed, 
badly  appointed  servitor,  who  seemed  almost  at  the  s:ime  time 
atterly  reckless  of  aud  nervously  alive  to  the  opinion  of  all 
around  him,  with  his  bursts  of  womanly  tenderness  and  Ber- 
serkir  rage,  alternating  like  the  storms  and  sunshine  of  a  July 
day  on  a  high  moorland,  his  keen  sense  of  humor  and  appreci- 
ation of  all  the  good  things  of  this  life,  the  use  and  enjoyment 
of  which  he  was  so  steadily  denying  himself  from  high  prin- 
ciple, had  from  the  first  seized  powerfully  on  all  Tom's  sympa- 
thies, and  was  daily  gaining  more  hold  upon  him. 

Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  the  gift  of  making  friends,  for 
it  is  one  of  God's  best  gifts.  It  involves  many  things,  but 
above  all,  I  take  it,  the  power  of  going  out  of  one's  self,  and 
seeing  and  appreciating  whatever  is  noble  and  living  (in  St. 
Paul's  sense)  in  another  man. 

But  even  to  him  who  has  the  gift,  it  is  often  a  great  puzzle 
to  find  out  whether  a  man  is  really  a  friend  or  not.  The 
following  is  recommended  as  a  test  in  the  case  of  any  man 
about  whom  you  are  not  quite  sure,  especially  if  he  should 
happen  to  have  more  of  this  world's  goods,  either  in  the  shape 
of  talents,  rank,  money,  or  what  not,  than  you  :  — 

Fancy  the  man  stripped  stark  naked  of  everything  in  the 
world  except  an  old  pair  of  trousers  and  a  shirt,  for  decency's 
sake,  without  even  a  name  to  him,  and  dropped  down  in  the 
middle  of  Holborn  or  Piccadilly.  Would  you  go  up  to  him 
then  and  there,  and  lead  him  out  from  amongst  the  cabs  and 
omnibuses,  and  take  him  to  your  own  home,  and  feed  him;  and 
clothe  him,  and  stand  by  him  against  all  the  world,  to  your 
last  sovereign  and  your  last  leg  of  mutton  ?  If  you  wouldn't 
do  this,  you  have  no  right  to  call  him  by  that  sacred  name  of 
friend.  If  you  would,  the  odds  are  that  he  would  do  the  same 
by  you,  and  you  may  count  yourself  a  rich  man.  For  I  reckon. 
that,  were  friendship  expressible  by,  or  convertible  into,  cur- 
rent coin  of  the  realm,  one  such  friend  would  be  worth  to 
a  man  at  least  £100,000.  How  many  millionaires  are  there 
in  England?  I  can't  even  guess;  but  more  by  a  good 
many,  I  fear,  than  there  are  men  who  have  ten  real 
friends.  But  friendship  is  not  so  expressible  or  convertibles 


72  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

It  is  more  precious  than  wisdom ;  and  wisdom  "  cannot  bo 
gotten  for  gold,  nor  shall  rubies  be  mentioned  in  comparison 
thereof."  Not  all  the  riches  that  ever  came  out  of  earth  and 
sea  are  worth  the  assurance  of  one  such  real,  abiding  friendship 
in  your  heart  of  hearts. 

But  for  the  worth  of  a  friendship,  commonly  so  called — 
meaning  thereby  a  sentiment  founded  on  the  good  dinners, 
good  stories,  opera  stalls,  and  days'  shooting  you  have  gotten 
or  hope  to  get  out  of  a  man,  the  snug  things  in  his  gift,  and 
his  powers  of  procuring  enjoyment  of  one  kind  or  another  to 
your  miserable  body  or  intellect — why,  such  a  friendship  as 
that  is  to  be  apprised  easily  enough  if  you  find  it  worth  your 
while ;  but  you'll  have  to  pay  your  pound  of  flesh  for  it  in  one 
way  or  another,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that.  If  you 
follow  my  advice,  you  will  take  a  £10  note  down,  and  retire  to 
your  crust  of  bread  and  liberty. 

So,  as  I  was  saying,  Tom  was  rapidly  falling  into  fiiendship 
with  Hardy.  He  was  not  bound  hand  and  foot  and  carried 
away  captive  till  some  months  later ;  but  he  was  already  get- 
ting deeper  in  the  toils. 

One  evening  he  found  himself  as  usual  at  Hardy's  door  about, 
eight  o'clock.  The  oak  was  open,  but  he  got  no  answer  when 
he  knocked  at  the  inner  door.  Nevertheless,  he  entered, 
having  quite  got  over  all  shyness  or  ceremony  by  this  time. 
The  room  was  empty ;  but  two  tumblers  and  the  black  bottle 
stood  on  the  table,  and  the  kettle  was  hissing  away  on  the  hob. 
"  Ah,"  thought  Tom,  "  he  expects  me,  I  see."  So  he  turned 
his  back  to  the  fire,  and  made  himself  at  home.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  passed,  and  still  Hardy  did  not  return.  "  Never  knew 
him  out  so  long  before  at  this  time  of  night,"  thought  Tom. 
"  Perhaps  he's  at  some  party.  I  hope  so.  It  would  do  him 
a  deal  of  good  ;  and  I  know  he  might  go  out  if  he  liked.  Next 
term  see  if  I  won't  make  him  more  sociable.  It's  a  stupid  custom 
that  freshmen  don't  give  parties  in  their  first  terra,  or  I'd  do  it 
at  once.  Why  won't  he  be  more  sociable  ?  No,  after  all,  *o« 
ciable  isn't  the  word;  he's  a  very  sociable  fellow  at  bottom. 
What  in  the  world  is  it  tha  the  wants  ?  "  And  so  Tom  balanced 
himself  on  the  two  hind  legs  of  one  of  the  Windsor  chairs, 
and  betook  himself  to  pondering  what  it  was  exactly  which 
ought  to  be  added  to  Hardy  to  make  him  an  unexceptionable 
object  of  hero-worship  ;  when  the  man  himself  came  suddenly 
into  the  room,  slamming  his  oak  behind  him,  and  casting  his 
cap  and  gown  fiercely  on  to  the  sofa,  before  he  noticed  our  hero. 

Tom  jumped  up  at  once.  "  My  dear  fellow,  what's  the 
matter ?*'  he  said.  «  I'm  sorry  I  came  in.  Shall  I  go?" 


AN  EXPLOSION.  <3 

**  No ;  don't  go.  Sit  down,"  said  Hardy,  abruptly ;  and 
then  began  to  smoke  fast  without  saying  another  word. 

Tom  waited  a  few  minutes,  watching  him,  and  then  brokt 
silence  again. 

"I  am  sure  something  is  the  matter,  Hardy.  You  ]ook 
dreadfully  put  out ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Hardy,  bitterly  :  "  oh  !  nothing  at  all, 
nothing  at  all;  a  gentle  lesson  to  servitors  as  to  the  duties  of 
their  position  ;  not  pleasant,  perhaps,  for  a  youngster  to  swal- 
!ow0  but  I  ought  to  be  used  to  such  things  at  any  rate  by  this 
time.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  seeming  put  out." 

"Do  tell  me  what  it  is,"  said  Tom.  " I'm  sure  I  am  very 
sorry  for  anything  which  annoys  you." 

"I  believe  you  are,"  said  Hardy,  looking  at  him,  "  and  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you  for  it.  What  do  you  think  of  that  fellow 
Chanter's  offering  Smith,  the  junior  servitor,  a  boy  just  come 
up,  a  bribe  of  ten  pounds  to  prick  him  in  at  chapel  when  he 
isn't  there  ?  " 

"  The  dirty  blackguard, "  said  Tom ;  "  by  Jove  he  ought  to 
be  cut.  He  will  be  cut,  won't  he  ?  You  don't  mean  that  he 
really  did  offer  him  the  money  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  and  the  poor  little  fellow  came  here 
after  hall  to  ask  me  what  he  should  do,  with  tears  in  his  eyes." 

"  Chanter  ought  to  be  horsewhipped  in  quad,"  said  Tom. 
"  I  will  go  and  call  on  Smith  directly.  What  did  you  do?  " 

"  Why,  as  soon  as  I  could  master  myself  enough  not  to  lay 
hands  on  him,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  went  across  to  his  rooms,  where 
he  was  entertaining  a  select  party,  and  just  gave  him  his  choice 
between  writing  an  abject  apology  then  and  there,  to  my  dic- 
tation, or  having  the  whole  business  laid  before  the  principal 
to-morrow  morning.  He  chose  the  former  alternative,  and  I 
made  him  write  such  a  letter  as  I  don't  think  he  will  forget  in 
\\  hurry." 

"  That's  good,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  he  ought  to  have  been 
horsewhipped,  too.  It  makes  one's  fingers  itch  to  think  of  it. 
However,  Smith's  all  right  now." 

«  All  right !  "  said  Hardy,  bitterly.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  '  all  ritrht.'  Probably  the  boy's  self-respect  is  hurt  for 
life.  You  can't  salve  over  this  sort  of  thing  with  an  apology 
plaster." 

"Well,  I  hope  it  isn't  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Tom. 

"Wait  till  you've  tried  it  yourself,"  said  Hardy.  "  I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is,  one  or  two  things  of  this  sort — and  I've  seen 
many  more  than  that  in  my  time — sink  down  into  you,  and 
leave  marks  like  a  reel  hot  iron." 


^  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

**  But,  Hardy,  now,  really,  did  you  ever  know  a  bribe  offered 
before?"  said  Tom. 

Hai-dy  thought  for  a  moment.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  say 
that  I  have ;  but  things  as  bad,  or  nearly  as  bad,  often."  He 
paused  a  minute,  and  then  went  on :  "I  tell  you,  if  it  were  not 
for  my  dear  old  father,  who  would  break  his  heart  over  it,  I 
would  cut  the  whole  concern  to-morrow.  I've  been  near  doing 
it  twenty  times,  and  enlisting  in  a  good  regiment." 

"  Would  it  be  any  better  there,  though  ?  "  said  Tom,  gently, 
for  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  magazine. 

"Better!  yes,  it  must  be  better,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  at  any  rate, 
the  youngsters  there  are  marchers  and  fighters ;  besides,  one 
would  be  in  the  ranks  and  know  one's  place.  Here  one  is  by 
way  of  being  a  gentleman — God  save  the  mark !  A  young 
officer,  be  he  never  such  a  fop  or  profligate,  must  take  his  turn 
at  guard,  and  carry  his  life  in  his  hand  all  over  the  world, 
wherever  he  is  sent,  or  he  has  to  leave  the  service.  Service ! 
yes,  that's  the  word  ;  that's  what  makes  every  young  red-coat 
respectable,  though  he  mayn't  think  it.  He  is  serving  his 
queen,  his  country — the  Devil,  too,  perhaps — very  likely — but 
still  the  other  in  some  sort.  He  is  bound  to  it,  sworn  to  it,  must 
do  it,  more  or  less.  But  a,  youngster  up  here,  with  health, 
strength,  and  heaps  of  money,  bound  to  no  earthly  service,  and 
choosing  that  of  the  Devil  and  his  own  lusts,  because  som«> 
service  or  other  he  must  have — I  want  to  know  where  els<? 
under  the  sun  you  can  see  such  a  sight  as  that  ?  " 

Tom  mumbled  something  to  the  effect  that  it  was  by  no 
means  necessary  that  men  at  Oxford,  either  rich  or  poor,  need 
embark  in  the  service  which  he  had  alluded  to  ;  which  remark, 
however,  only  seemed  to  add  fuel  to  the  fire  ;  for  Hardy  now 
rose  from  his  chair  and  began  striding  up  and  down  the  room, 
his  right  arm  behind  his  back,  the  hand  gripping  his  left  elbow, 
his  left  hand  brought  round  in  front  close  to  his  body,  and 
holding  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  from  which  he  was  blowing  off 
clouds  in  puffs,  like  an  engine  just  starting  with  a  heavy  train. 
The  attitude  was  one  of  a  man  painfully  trying  to  curb  himself. 
His  eyes  burnt  like  coals  under  his  deep  brows.  The  man 
altogether  looked  awful,  and  Tom  felt  particularly  uncomfort- 
able and  puzzled.  After  a  turn  or  two,  Hardy  burst  out 
again : — 

"•  And  who  are  they,  I  should  like  to  know,  these  fellows  who 
dare  to  offer  bribes  to  gentlemen  ?  How  do  they  live  ?  What 
do  they  do  for  themselves  or  for  this  university?  By  Heaven  1 
they  are  ruining  themselves  body  and  soul,  and  making  this 
place,  which  was  meant  for  the  training  of  learned  and  brave 


AN  EXPLOSION.  75 

and  righteous  Englishmen,  a  lie  and  a  snare.  And  who  tries  to 
stop  them  ?  Here  and  there  a  don  is  doing  his  work  like  a  man  ; 
the  rest  are  either  washing  their  handr  of  the  business,  and 
spending  their  time  in  looking  after  those  who  don't  want 
looking  after,  and  cramming  those  who  would  be  better 
without  the  cramming,  or  else  standing  by,  cap  in  hand, 
and  shouting,  *  O  young  men  of  large  fortune  and  great 
connections !  you  future  dispensers  of  the  good  things  of  thii 
realm !  come  to  our  colleges,  and  all  shall  be  made  pleasant  1 ' 
and  the  shout  is  taken  up  by  undergraduates,  and  tradesmen, 
and  horse-dealers,  and  cricket-cads,  and  dog-fanciers,  'Corne  to 
us,  and  us,  and  us,  and  we  will  be  your  toadies  ! '  Let  them, 
let  them  toady  and  cringe  to  their  precious  idols,  till  they 
bring  this  noble  old  place  down  about  their  ears.  Down  it 
will  come,  down  it  must  come,  for  down  it  ought  to  come,  if  it 
can  find  nothing  better  to  worship  than  rank,  money,  and  in- 
tellect. But  to  live  in  the  place  and  love  it,  too,  and  see 
all  this  going  on,  aud  gi'oan  and  wi'ithe  under  it,  and  not  be 
able—" 

At  this  point  in  his  speech,  Hardy  came  to  the  turning- 
point  in  his  march  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  just  op- 
posite his  crockery  cupboard  ;  but,  instead  of  turning  as  usual, 
he  paused,  let  go  the  hold  on  his  left  elbow,  poised  himself  for 
a  moment  to  get  a  purchase,  and  then  dashed  his  right  fist 
full  against  one  of  the  panels.  Crash  went  the  slight  deal 
boards,  as  if  struck  with  a  sledge-hammer,  and  crash  went 
glass  and  crockery  behind.  Tom  jumped  to  his  feet ;  in  doubt 
whether  an  assault  on  him  would  not  follow ;  but  the  fit  was 
over,  and  Hardy  looked  round  at  him,  with  a  rueful  and  deprecat- 
ing face.  For  a  moment  Tom  tried  to  look  solemn  and  heroic, 
as  befitted  the  occasion  ;  but,  somehow,  the  sudden  contrast 
flashed  on  him,  and  sent  him  off,  before  he  could  think  about 
it,  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  ending  in  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  j 
for  in  his  excitement  he  had  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  smoke. 
Hardy,  after  holding  out  for  a  moment,  gave  in  to  the  humor 
of  the  thing,  and  the  appealing  look  passed  into  a  smile, 
and  the  smile  into  a  laugh,  as  he  turned  towards  his  damaged 
cupboard,  and  began  opening  it  carefully  in  a  legitimate 
manner. 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,"  said  Tom,  coming  up,  "  I  should  think 
you  must  find  it  an  expensive  amusement ;  do  you  often  walk 
into  your  cupboards  »ike  that?  " 

"  Y  ou  see,  Brown,  I'm  naturally  a  man  of  a  very  quick  tem- 
per." 

«'  So  it  seems,"   said  Tom  ;    "  but  doesn't   it  hurt    your 


76  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

knuckles  ?  I  should  have  something  softer  put  up  for  me  if  I 
were  you ;  your  bolster,  with  a  velvet  cap  on  it,  or  a  doctor  of 
divinity's  gown  now." 

"  You  be  hanged,"  said  Hardy,  as  he  disengaged  the  last 
splinter,  and  gently  opened  the  ill-used  cupboard  door.  "Oh, 
thunder  and  turf,  look  here ! "  he  went  on,  as  the  state  of 
affairs  inside  disclosed  itself  to  his  view;  "how  many  times 
have  I  told  that  thief  George  never  to  put  anything  on  this 
side  of  my  cupboard!  Two  tumblers  smashed  to  bits,  and 
I've  only  four  in  the  world  !  Lucky  we'd  got  those  two  out  on 
the  table." 

"  And  here's  a  great  piece  out  of  the  sugar  basin,  you  see," 
said  Tom,  holding  up  the  broken  article ;  "  and,  let  me  see,  one 
cup,  and  three  saucers  gone  to  glory." 

"  Well,  it's  lucky  it's  no  worse,"  said  Hardy,  peering  over 
his  shoulder  ;  "  I  had  a  lot  of  odd  saucers,  and  there's  enough 
left  to  last  my  time.  Never  mind  the  smash,  let's  sit  down 
again  and  be  reasonable." 

Tom  sat  down  in  high  good-humor.  He  felt  himself  more 
on  an  equality  with  his  host  than  he  had  done  before,  and  even 
thought  he  might  venture  on  a  little  mild  expostulation  or 
lecturing.  But  while  he  was  considering  how  to  improve  the 
occasion,  Hardy  began  himself. 

"  I  shouldn't  get  so  furious,  Brown,  if  I  didn't  care  about 
the  place  so  much.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  as  a  sort  of 
learning  machine  in  which  I  am  to  grind  for  three  years  to  get 
certain  degrees  which  I  want.  No — this  place,  and  Cambridge, 
and  our  great  schools  are  the  heart  of  dear  old  England.  Did 
you  ever  read  Secretai-y  Cook's  address  to  the  vice-chancellor, 
doctors,  etc.,  in  1636 — more  critical  times,  perhaps  even  than 
ours  ?  No  ?  Well  listen,  then ; "  and  he  went  to  his  book- 
case, took  down  a  book,  and  read,  "'The  very  truth  is,  that 
all  wise  princes  respect  the  welfare  of  their  estates,  and  con- 
eider  that  schools  and  universities  are  (as  in  the  body)  the 
noble  and  vital  parts,  which,  being  vigorous  and  sound,  send 
good  blood  and  active  spirits  into  the  veins  and  nrieries,  which 
cause  health  and  strength  ;  or,  if  feeble  or  ill-affected,  corrupt 
all  the  vital  parts ;  whereupon  grow  disease,  and  in  the  end, 
death  itself.'  A  low  standard  up  here  for  ten  years  may  cor- 
rupt half  the  parishes  in  the  kingdom." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Tom,  but—" 

"Yes;  and  so  one  has  a  right  to  be  jealous  for  Oxford. 
Every  Englishman  ought  to  be." 

"  But  I  really  think,  Hardy,  that  you're  unreasonable,"  said 
Tom,  who  had  no  mind  to  be  done  out  of  his  chance  of  lectui-- 
ing  his  host. 


HARDY'S  HISTORY.  77 

"I'm  very  quick-tempered,"  said  Hardy,  "  as  I  told  yon  just 
now." 

"But  you're  not  fair  on  the  fast  set  up  here.  They  can't 
help  being  rich  men,  after  all." 

"  No  ;  so  one  oughtn't  to  expect  them  to  be  going  through 
the  eyes  of  needles,  I  suppose.  But  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
ever  heard  of  a  more  dirty  blackguard  business  than  this?" 
said  Hardy;  "he  ought  to  be  expelled  the  university." 

"  I  admit  that,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  it  was  only  one  of  them, 
you  know.  I  don't  believe  there's  another  man  in  the  set  who 
would  have  done  it." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not,"  said  Hardy  ;  "  I  may  be  hard  on  them 
— as  you  say,  they  can't  help  being  rich.  But  now,  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  me  a  violent,  one-sided  fanatic ;  shall  1  tell 
you  some  of  my  experiences  up  here — some  passages  from  the 
life  of  a  servitor  ?  " 

"  Do,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  should  like  nothing  so  well." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
HARDY'S  HISTORY. 

ON"  the  whole,  I  think  it  will  put  my  readers  in  a  better  posi- 
tion for  understanding  my  story,  if  I  take  this  early  oppor- 
tunity of  making  them  better  acquainted  with  Hardy.  So  I 
have  put  together  at  once  a  connected  sketch  of  his  life,  which 
Tom  picked  up  bit  by  bit  from  him,  on  the  night  of  the  broken 
cupboard  and  afterwards,  as  their  friendship  went  on  ripening; 
and  as  it  is  always  best  to  let  a  man  speak  for  himself  Hardy 
shall  tell  his  own  tale,without  comment.  So  let  us  fancy  ourselves 
in  the  room  described  in  Chapter  V.,  sitting  in  a  Windsor  chair, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  to  Hardy,  and  bent  with  our 
whole  wills  on  knowing,  understanding,  throwing  ourselves 
into  the  life  of,  and  sympathizing  with,  the  strange  granite 
block  of  humanity,  who  sits  in  the  fellow  Windsor  chair,  and 
speaks  as  follows : — 

"  My  father  is  an  old  commander  in  the  Royal  Navy.  He 
was  a  second  cousin  of  Nelson's  Hardy,  and  that,  I  believe, 
was  what  led  him  into  the  navy,  for  he  had  no  interest  what- 
ever of  his  own.  It  was  a  visit  which  Nelson's  Hardy,  then  a, 
young  lieutenant,  paid  to  his  relative,  my  grandfather,  which 
decided  my  father,  he  has  told  me  ;  but  he  always  had  a  strong 
bent  to  the  sea,  though  he  was  a  boy  of  very  studious  habits.'' 


78  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"However,  those  were  times  when  brave  men  who  knew 
and  loved  their  profession  couldn't  be  overlooked,  and  my  dear 
old  father  fought  his  way  up  step  by  step — not  very  fast  cer- 
tainly, but  still  fast  enough  to  keep  him  in  heart  about  his 
chances  in  life.  I  could  show  you  the  accounts  of  some  of  the 
affairs  he  was  in  in  James'  History,  which  you  see  upon  my 
shelf  there,  or  I  could  tell  them  you  myself ;  but  I  hope  some 
day  you  will  know  him,  and  then  you  will  hear  them  in  perfec- 
tion. 

"My  father  was  made  commander  towards  the  end  of  the 
war,  and  got  a  ship  in  which  he  sailed  with  a  convoy  of  mer- 
chantmen from  Bristol.  It  was  the  last  voyage  he  ever  made 
in  active  service;  but  the  admiralty  were  so  well  satisfied  with 
his  conduct  in  it  that  they  kept  his  ship  in  commission  two 
years  after  peace  was  declared.  And  well  they  might  be,  for 
in  the  Spanish  main  he  fought  an  action  which  lasted,  on  and 
off,  for  two  days,  with  a  French  sloop-of-war,  and  a  privateer, 
which  he  always  thought  was  an  American,  either  of  which 
ought  to  have  been  a  match  for  him.  But  he  had  been  with 
Vincent  in  the  Arrow,  and  was  not  likely  to  think  much  of 
such  small  odds  as  that.  At  any  rate,  he  beat  them  off,  and 
not  a  prize  could  either  of  them  make  out  of  his  convoy 
though  I  believe  his  ship  was  never  fit  for  anything  afterwards, 
and  was  broken  up  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  commission.  We 
have  got  her  compasses,  and  the  old  flag  which  flew  at  the 
peak  through  the  whole  voyage,  at  home  now.  It  was  rny 
father's  own  flag,  and  his  fancy  to  have  it  always  flying.  More 
than  half  the  men  were  killed,  or  badly  hit — the  dear  old 
father  amongst  the  rest.  A  ball  took  off  part  of  his  knee- 
cap, and  he  had  to  fight  the  last  six  hours  of  the  action  sitting 
in  a  chair  on  the  quarter-deck ;  but  he  says  it  made  the  men 
fight  better  than  when  he  was  about  among  them,  seeing  Mm 
sitting  there  sucking  oranges. 

"  Well,  he  came  home  with  a  stiff  leg.  The  Bristol  mer- 
chants gave  him  the  freedom  of  the  city  in  a  gold  box,  and  a 
splendidly  mounted  sword  with  an  inscription  on  the  blade, 
which  hangs  over  the  mantelpiece  at  home.  When  I  first  left 
home,  I  asked  him  to  give  rne  his  old  service  sword,  which 
used  to  hang  by  the  other,  and  he  gave  it  me  at  once,  though 
I  was  only  a  lad  of  seventeen,  as  he  would  give  me  his  right 
eye,  dear  old  father,  which  is  the  only  one  he  has  now ;  the 
other  he  lost  from  a  cutlass-wound  in  a  boarding  party.  There 
it  hangs,  and  those  are  his  epaulettes  in  the  tin  case.  They 
used  to  lie  under  my  pillow  before  I  had  a  room  of  my  own, 
and  many  a  cowardly,  down-hearted  fit  have  they  helped  to 


HAEDT-S  HISTORY.  79 

pull  me  through,  Brown  ;  and  many  a  mean  net  have  they 
helped  to  hinder  me  from  doing.*  There  they  are  always;  and 
the  sight  of  them  brings  home  the  dear  old  man  to  me  as 
nothing  else  does,  hardly  even  his  letters.  I  must  be  a  great 
scoundrel  to  go  very  wrong  with  such  a  father. 

"Let's  see — where  was  I?  Oh,  yes!  I  remember.  Well, 
my  father  got  his  box  and  sword,  and  some  very  handsome 
letters  from  several  great  men.  We  have  them  all  in  a  book 
at  home,  and  I  know  them  by  heart.  The  ones  he  values 
most  are  from  Collingwood,  and  his  old  captain,  Vincent,  and 
from  his  cousin,  Nelson's  Hardy,  who  didn't  come  off  much 
better  himself  after  the  war  than  ray  father;  for  my  poor  old 
father  never  got  another  ship.  For  some  time  he  went  up 
every  year  to  London,  and  was  always,  he  says,  very  kindly 
received  by  the  people  in  power,  and  often  dined  with  one  and 
another  lord  of  the  admiralty  who  had  been  an  old  messmate. 
But  he  was  longing  for  employment ;  and  it  used  to  prey  on 
him  while  he  was  in  his  prime  to  feel  year  after  year  slip- 
ping away,  and  he  still  without  a  ship.  But  why  should  I 
abuse  people,  and  think  it  hard  when  he  doesn't?  'You  see, 
Jack,*  he  said  to  me  the  last  time  we  spoke  about  it,  *  after 
all,  I  was  a  battered  old  hulk,  lame  and  half  blind.  So  was 
Nelson,  you'll  say;  but  every  man  isn't  a  Nelson,  my  boy. 
And  though  I  might  think  I  could  con  or  fight  a  ship  as  well 
as  ever,  I  can't  say  other  folks  who  didn't  know  me  were  wrong 
for  not  agreeing  with  me.  Would  you  now,  Jack,  appoint  a 
lame  and  blind  man  to  command  your  ship,  if  you  had  one?' 
But  he  left  off  applying  for  work  soon  after  he  was  fifty  (I 
just  remember  the  time)  for  he  began  to  doubt  then  whether 
he  was  quite  so  fit  to  command  a  small  vessel  as  ft  younger 
man ;  and,  though  he  had  a  much  better  chance  after  that  of 
getting  a  ship  (for  William  IV.  came  to  the  throne,  who  knew 
all  about  him),  he  never  went  near  the  admiralty  again.  *  God 
forbid,'  he  said,  'that  his  majesty  should  take  me  if  there's  a 
better  man  to  be  had.' 

"But  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  how  I  came  into  the 
world,  and  am  telling  you  my  father's  story  instead  of  my  own. 
You  seem  to  like  hearing  about  it  though,  and  you  can't 
understand  the  one  without  the  other.  However,  when  my 
father  was  made  commander,  he  married,  and  bought,  with 
his  prize  money  and  savings,  a  cottage  and  piece  of  land,  in  a 
village  on  the  south  coast,  where  he  left  his  wife  when  he 
went  on  his  last  voyage.  They  had  waited  some  years,  for 
neither  of  them  had  any  money;  but  there  never  were  two 
people  who  wanted  it  less,  or  did  more  good  without  it  to  all 


80  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD 

who  came  near  them.  They  had  a  hard  time  of  it  too,  for  my 
father  had  to  go  on  half-pay  ;  and  a  commander's  half-pay  isn't 
much  to  live  upon  and  keep  a  family.  For  they  had  a 
family  ;  three,  besides  me  ;  but  they  are  all  gone.  And 
my  mother,  too  ;  she  died  when  I  was  quite  a  boy,  and 
left  him  and  me  alone  ;  and  since  then  I  have  never 
known  what  a  woman's  love  is,  for  I  have  no  near  rela- 
tions ;  and  a  man  with  such  prospects  as  mine  had  better 
keep  down  all — however,  there's  no  need  to  go  into  my 
notions ;  I  won't  wander  any  more  if  I  can  help  it. 

"  I  know  my  father  was  very  poor  when  my  mother  died, 
and  I  think  (though  he  never  told  me  so)  that  he  had  mort- 
gaged our  cottage,  and  was  very  near  having  to  sell  it  at  one 
time.  The  expenses  of  my  mother's  illness  had  been  very  heavy ; 
I  know  a  good  deal  of  the  best  furniture  was  sold — all,  indeed, 
except  a  handsome  arm-chair,  and  a  little  work-table  of  my 
mother's.  She  used  to  sit  in  the  chair,  in  her  last  illness,  on 
our  lawn,  and  watch  the  sunsets.  And  he  sat  by  her,  and 
watched  her  and  sometimes  read  the  Bible  to  her  ;  while  I 
played  about  with  a  big  black  dog  we  had  then,  named  Vin- 
cent, after  my  father's  old  captain  ;  or  with  Burt,  his  old  boat- 
swain, who  came  with  his  wife  to  live  with  my  father  before  I 
can  recollect,  and  lives  with  us  still.  He  did  everything  in 
the  garden  and  about  the  house  ;  and  in  the  house,  too,  when 
his  wife  was  ill,  for  he  can  turn  his  hand  to  anything,  like  most 
old  salts.  It  was  he  who  rigged  up  the  mast  and  weathercock 
on  the  lawn,  and  used  to  let  me  run  up  the  old  flag  on  Sundays, 
and  on  my  father's  wedding-day,  and  on  the  anniversary  of  hia 
action,  and  of  Vincent's  action  in  the  Arrow. 

"  After  my  mother's   death   my   father  sent  away  all  the 
servants,  for  the  boatswain  and  his  wife  are  more   like  friends. 
I  was  wrong  to  say  that  no  woman  has  loved  me  since  m 
mother's  death,  for  I  believe  dear  old  Nanny  loves  me  as  if 
were  her  own  child.     My  father,  after  this,  used  to  sit  silent 
for  hours  together,  doing  nothing  but  look  over  the  sea ;  but, 
except  for  that,  was  not  much  changed.     After  a  short  time  he 
took  to  teaching  me  to  read,  and  from  that  time  I  never  was 
away  from  him  for  an  hour,  except  when  I  was  asleep,  until  I 
went  out  into  the  world. 

"  As  I  told  you,  my  father  was  naturally  fond  of  study.  He 
had  kept  up  the  little  Latin  he  had  learnt  as  a  boy,  and  had 
always  been  reading  whatever  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  ;  so 
that  I  couldn't  have  had  a  better  tutor.  They  were  no  lessons 
to  me,  particularly  the  geography  ones;  for  there  was  no  part 
of  the  world's  sea-coast  that  he  not  did  know,  and  could  tell  mo 


IIAHDY'S  HISTORY.  81 

what  it  and  the  people  who  lived  there  were  like  ;  und  often 
when  Btirt  happened  to  come  in  at  such  times,  and  heard  what 
my  father  was  talking  about,  he  would  give  us  some  of  his 
adventures  and  ideas  of  geography,  which  were  very  queer  in- 
deed. 

"  When  I  was  nearly  ten,  a  new  vicar  came.  He  Tvr.s  ,'ihout 
ray  father's  age,  and  a  widower,  like  him ;  only  he  had  no  child. 
Like  him,  too,  he  had  no  private  fortune,  and  the  living  is  a 
very  poor  one.  He  soon  became  very  intimate  with  us,  mil 
made  my  father  his  church-warden  ;  and  after  being  present  at 
some  of  our  lessons,  volunteered  to  teach  me  Greek,  v/hich,  he 
said,  it  was  time  I  should  begin  to  learn.  This  was  a  great  re- 
lief to  my  father,  who  had  bought  a  Greek  grammar  and 
dictionary,  and  a  delectus,  some  time  before  ;  and  I  could  see 
him  often  dear  old  father,  with  his  glass  in  his  eve,  puzzling 
away  over  them  when  I  was  playing  or  reading  Cook's  voyages, 
for  it  had  grown  up  to  be  the  wish  of  his  heart  that  I  should 
be  a  scholar,  and  should  go  into  orders.  So  he  was  going  to 
teach  me  Greek  himself,  for  there  were  was  no  one  in  the 
parish  except  the  vicar  who  knew  a  word  of  anything  but 
English — so  that  he  could  not  have  got  me  a  tutor,  and  tho 
thought  of  sending  me  to  school  had  never  crossed  his  mind, 
even  if  he  could  have  afforded  to  do  either.  My  father  only 
sat  by  at  the  Greek  lessons,  and  took  no  part ;  but  tirst  he  began 
to  put  in  a  word  here  and  there,  and  then  would  repeat  words 
and  sentences  himself,  and  look  over  my  book  while  I  construed, 
and  very  soon  was  just  as  regular  a  pupil  of  the  vicar  as  I. 

"The  vicar  was  for  the  most  part  very  proud  of  his  pupils, 
and  the  kindest  of  masters  ;  but  every  now  and  then  he  used 
to  be  hard  on  my  father,  which  made  me  furious,  though  he 
never  seemed  to  mind  it.  I  used  to  make  mistakes  on  purpose 
at  those  times  to  show  that  I  was  worse  than  he,  at  any  rate. 
But  this  only  happened  after  we  had  had  a  political  discussion 
at  dinner ;  for  we  dined  at  three,  and  took  to  our  Greek  after- 
wards, to  suit  the  vicar's  time,  who  was  generally  a  guest.  My 
father  is  a  Tory,  of  course,  as  you  may  guess,  and  the  vicar  was 
a  Liberal,  of  a  very  mild  sort,  as  I  have  since  thought;  *» 
Whig  of  '88,'  he  used  to  call  himself.  But  he  was  in  favor  of 
the  Reform  Bill,  which  was  enough  for  my  father,  who  lect- 
ured him  about  loyalty,  and  opening  the  floodgates  to  revol- 
ution; and  used  to  call  up  old  Burt  from  the  kitchen,  where 
he  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  ask  him  what  he  used  to  think  of 
the  Radicals  on  board  ship  ;  and  Burt's  regular  reply  was, — 

"  '  Skulks,  yer  honor,  regular  skulks.  I  wouldn't  give  the 
twist  of  a  fiddlei%'s  elbow  for  all  the  lot  of 'em  as  ever  pretend- 
ed to  handle  a  swa'i,  or  hand  «-  topsail.' 


82  TOM  BROWNE  OXFORD. 

"  The  vicar  always  tried  to  argue,  but,  as  Burt  and  I  were 
the  only  audience,  ray  father  was  always  triumphant ;  only  he 
took  it  out  of  us  afterwards  at  the  Greek.  Often  I  used  to 
think,  when  they  were  reading  history,  and  talking  about  the 
characters,  that  my  father  was  much  the  most  liberal  of  the 
two. 

"  About  this  time  he  bought  a  small,  half-decked  boat  of  ten 
tons,  for  he  and  Burt  agreed  that  I  ought  to  learn  to  handle  a 
boat,  although  I  was  not  to  go  to  sea;  and  when  they  got  the 
vicar  in  the  boat  on  the  summer  evenings  (for  he  was  always 
ready  for  a  sail,  though  he  was  a  very  bad  sailor),  I  believe  they 
used  to  steer  as  near  the  wind  as  possible,  and  get  into  short 
chopping  seas  on  purpose.  But  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  fright- 
ened, though  he  used  sometimes  to  be  very  ill. 

"  And  so  I  went  on,  learning  all  I  could  from  my  father,  and 
the  vicar,  and  old  Burt,  till  I  was  sixteen.  By  that  time  I  had 
begun  to  think  for  myself;  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 
it  was  time  I  should  do  something.  No  boy  ever  wanted  to 
leave  home  less,  I  believe  ;  but  I  saw  that  I  must  make  a  move 
if  I  was  ever  to  be  what  my  father  wished  me  to  be.  So  I 
spoke  to  the  vicar,  and  he  quite  agreed  with  me,  and  made  in- 
quiries amongst  his  acquaintance  ;  and  so  before  I  was  seven- 
teen, I  was  offered  the  place  of  under-master  in  a  commercial 
school,  about  twenty  miles  from  home.  The  vicar  brought  the 
offer,  and  my  father  was  very  angry  at  first ;  but  we  talked 
him  over,  and  so  I  took  the  situation. 

"  And  I  am  very  glad  I  did,  although  there  were  many  draw- 
backs. The  salary  was  £35  a  year,  and  for  that  I  had  to  drill 
all  the  boys  in  English,  and  arithmetic,  and  Latin,  and  to  teach 
the  Greek  grammar  to  the  five  or  six  who  paid  extra  to  learn 
it.  Out  of  school  I  had  to  be  always  with  them,  and  was  re- 
sponsible for  the  discipline.  It  was  weary  work  very  often, 
and  what  seemed  the  worst  part  of  it,  at  the  time,  to  me  was 
the  trado  spirit  which  leavened  the  whole  of  the  establishment. 
The  master  and  owner  of  the  school,  who  was  a  keen,  vulgar 
man,  but  always  civil  enough  to  me,  thought  of  nothing  but 
what  would  pay.  And  this  seemed  to  be  what  filled  the  school. 
Fathers  sent  their  boys,  because  the  place  was  so  practical,  and 
nothing  was  taught  (except  as  extras),  which  was  not  to  be  of 
so-called  real  use  to  the  boys  in  the  world.  We  had  our  work 
quite  clearly  laid  down  for  us ;  and  it  was  not  to  put  the  boys 
in  the  way  of  getting  real  knowledge  or  understanding,  or  any 
of  the  things  Solomon  talks  about ;  but  to  put  them  in  the  way 
of  getting  on. 

"  I   spent  three  years  at  that  school,  and   in  that  tirae^  I 


HARDY'S  HISTORY.  83 

grounded  myself  pretty  well  in  Latin  and  Greek — better,  I 
believe,  than  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  been  at  a  firstrate 
school  myself ;  and  I  hope  I  did  the  boys  some  good,  and  taught 
some  of  them  that  cunning  was  not  the  best  quality  to  start  in 
life  with.  And  I  was  not  often  very  unhappy,  for  I  could 
always  look  forward  to  my  holidays  with  my  father. 

"  However,  1  own  that  I  never  was  better  pleased  than  one 
Christmas,  when  the  vicar  came  over  to  our  cottage,  and 
brought  with  him  a  letter  from  the  principal  of  St.  Ambrose 
College,  Oxford,  appointing  me  to  a  servitorship.  My  father 
was  even  more  delighted  than  I,  and  that  evening  produced  a 
bottle  of  old  rum,  which  was  part  of  his  ship's  stock,  and  had 
gone  all  through  his  action,  and  been  in  his  cellar  ever  since. 
And  we  three  in  the  parlor,  and  old  Burt  and  his  wife  in  the 
kitchen,  finished  it  that  night;  the  boatswain,  I  must  owu^, 
taking  the  lion's  share.  The  vicar  took  occasion,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  to  hint  that  it  was  only  poor  men  who  took 
these  places  at  the  university;  and  that  I  might  find  some  in- 
convenience, and  suffer  some  annoyance,  by  not  being  exactly 
in  the  same  position  as  other  men.  But  my  dear  old  father 
would  not  hear  of  it ;  I  was  now  going  to  be  amongst  the  very 
pick  of  English  gentlemen — what  could  it  matter  whether  I 
had  money  or  not?  That  was  the  last  thing  which  real  gentle- 
men thought  of.  Besides,  why  was  I  to  be  so  very  poor  ?  he 
should  be  able  to  allow  me  whatever  would  be  necessary  to 
make  me  comfortable.  'But,  Jack,'  he  said,  suddenly,  later  in 
the  evening,  *  one  meets  low  fellows  everywhere.  You  have 
met  them,  I  know,  often  at  that  confounded  school,  and  will 
meet  them  again.  Never  you  be  ashamed  of  your  poverty,  my 
boy.'  I  promised  readily  enough,  for  I  didn't  think  I  could  be 
more  tried  in  that  way  than  I  had  been  already.  I  had  lived 
for  three  years  amongst  people  whose  class  notoriously  measured 
all  things  by  a  money  standard ;  now  that  was  all  over,  I 
thought.  It's  easy  making  promises  in  the  dark.  The  vicar, 
however,  would  not  let  the  matter  rost ;  so  we  resolved  our- 
selves into  a  committee  of  ways  and  means,  and  my  father  en- 
gaged to  lay  before  us  an  exact  statement  of  his  affairs  next 
day.  I  went  to  the  door  with  the  vicar,  and  he  told  me  to 
come  and  see  him  in  the  morning. 

"  I  half  guessed  what  he  wanted  to  see  me  for.  He  knew  all 
my  father's  affairs  perfectly  well,  and  wished  to  prepare  me 
for  what  was  to  come  in  the  evening.  *  Your  father,'  he  said, 
'is  one  of  the  most  liberal  men  I  have  ever  met ;  he  is  almost 
the  only  p<  Tson  who  gives  anything  to  the  schools  and  other 
charities  m  this  parish,  and  he  gives  to  the  utmost.  You 


84  TOM  BROWN  A T  OXFORD. 

would  not  wish  him,  I  know,  to  cut  off  these  gifts,  which  bring 
the  highest  reward  with  them,  when  they  are  made  in  the 
spirit  in  which  he  makes  them.  Then  he  is  getting  old,  and 
you  would  never  like  him  to  deny  himself  the  comforts  (and 
few  enough  they  are)  which  he  is  used  to.  He  has  nothing  but 
his  halfpay,  £ — ,  a  year  to  live  on  ;  and  out  of  that  he  pays  £ — 
a  year  for  insurance ;  for  he  has  insured  his  life,  that  you  may 
have  something  besides  the  cottage  and  land  when  he  dies.  I 
only  tell  you  this,  that  you  may  know  the  facts  beforehand.  I 
am  sure  you  would  never  take  a  penny  from  him  if  you  could 
help  it.  But  he  won't  be  happy  unless  he  makes  you  some  al- 
lowance ;  and  he  can  do  it  without  crippling  himself.  He  has 
been  paying  off  an  old  mortgage  ou  his  property  here  for  many 
years,  by  instalments  of  £40  a  year,  and  the  last  was  paid  last 
Michaelmas,  so  that  it  will  not  inconvenience  him  to  make  you 
that  allowance.  Now  you  will  not  be  able  to  live  properly 
upon  that  up  at  Oxford,  even  as  a  servitor.  I  speak  to  you 
now,  my  dear  Jack,  as  your  oldest  friend  (except  Burt),  and 
you  must  allow  me  the  privilege  of  an  old  friend.  I  have  more 
than  1  want,  and  I  propose  to  make  up  your  allowance  at  Ox- 
ford to  £80  a  year,  and  upon  that  I  think  you  may  manage  to 
get  on.  Now,  it  will  not  be  quite  candid,  but  think,  under 
the  circumstances,  we  shall  be  justified  in  representing  to  your 
father  that  £40  a  year  will  be  ample  for  him  to  allow  you.  You 
see  what  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  remembered  almost  word  for  word  what  the  vicar  said, 
for  it  is  not  often  in  one's  life  that  one  meets  with  this  sort  of 
friend.  At  first  I  thanked  him,  but  refused  to  take  anything 
from  him.  I  had  saved  enough,  I  said,  to  carry  me  through 
Oxford.  But  he  would  not  be  put  off ;  and  I  found  that  his 
heart  was  much  set  on  making  me  an  allowance  himself  as  on 
saving  my  father.  So  I  agreed  to  take  £25  a  year  from  him. 

"  When  we  met  again  in  the  evening  to  hear  my  father's 
statement,  it  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  the  dear  old  man  with 
his  spectacles  on,  and  his  papers  before  him,  proving  in  some 
wonderful  way,  and  without  making  the  least  misstatement,  that 
he  could  easily  allow  me  at  least  £80  or  £100  a  year.  I  believe 
it  cost  the  vicar  some  twinges  of  conscience  to  persuade  him 
that  all  I  should  want  would  be  £40  a  year ;  and  it  was  very 
hard  work,  but  at  last  we  succeeded,  and  it  was  so  settled.  Dur- 
ing the  next  three  weeks  the  preparations  for  my  start  occupied 
us  all.  The  vicar  looked  out  all  his  old  classics,  which  he  in- 
sisted  that  I  should  take.  There  they  stand  on  that  middle 
shelf— all  well  bound  you  see,  and  many  of  them  old  college 
prizes.  My  father  made  an  expedition  to  the  nearest  town,  and 


HARDY'S  HISTORY.  85 

came  back  with  a  large  new  portmanteau  and  hatbox,  and  the 
next  day  the  leading  tailor  came  over  to  fit  me  out  with  new 
clothes.  In  fact,  if  I  had  not  resisted  stoutly,  I  should  have  come 
to  college  with  half  the  contents  of  the  cottage,  and  Burt  as  a 
valet,  for  the  old  boatswain  was  as  bad  as  the  other  two.  But^, 
I  compromised  the  matter  with  him  by  accepting  his  pocket 
compass,  and  the  picture  of  the  brig  which  hangs  there;  the  two 
things,  next  to  his  old  wife,  which  he  values,  I  believe,  most  in 
the  world. 

"  Well,  it  is  now  two  years  last  October  since  I  came  to  Ox- 
ford as  a  servitor ;  so  you  see  I  have  pretty  nearly  finished  my 
time  here.  I  was  more  than  twenty  then — much  older,  as  you 
know,  than  most  freshmen.  I  dare  say  it  was  partly  owing  to 
the  difference  in  age,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  I  knew  no  one 
when  1  came  up,  and  mostly  to  my  own  bad  management  and 
odd  temper,  that  I  did  not  get  on  better  than  I  have  done  with 
the  men  here.  Sometimes  I  think  that  our  college  is  a  bad  speci- 
men, for  I  have  made  several  friends  amongst  our  out-college  men. 
At  any  rate,  the  fact  is,  as  you  have  no  doubt  found  out, — and  I 
hope  I  haven't  tried  at  all  to  conceal  it, — that  I  am  out  of  the 
pale,  as  it  were.  In  fact,  with  the  exception  of  one  of  the  tutors, 
and  one  man  who  was  a  freshman  with  me,  I  do  not  know  a 
man  in  college  except  as  a  mere  speaking  acquaintance. 

"I  had  been  rather  thrown  off  my  balance,  I  think,  at  the 
change  in  my  life,  for  at  first  I  made  a  great  fool  of  myself.  I 
had  believed  too  readily  what  my  father  had  said,  and  thought 
that  at  Oxford  I  should  see  no  more  of  what  I  had  been  used 
to.  Here  I  thought  that  the  last  thing  a  man  would  be  valued 
by  would  be  the  length  of  his  purse,  and  that  no  one  would  look 
down  upon  me  because  I  performed  some  services  to  the  college, 
in  return  for  my  keep,  instead  of  paying  for  it  in  money. 

"Yes,  I  made  a  great  fool  of  myself,  no  doubt  of  that ;  and 
what  is  worse,  I  broke  my  promise  to  my  father — I  often  was 
ashamed  of  my  poverty,  and  tried  at  first  to  hide  it,  for  some, 
how  the  spirit  of  the  place  carried  me  along  with  it.  I 
couldn't  help  wishing  to  be  thought  of  and  treated  as  an  equal 
by  the  men.  It's  a  very  bitter  thing  for  a  proud,  shy,  sensitive 
fellow,  as  I  am  by  nature,  to  have  to  bear  the  sort  of  assurap 
tion  and  insolence  one  meets  with.  I  furnished  my  room* 
well,  and  dressed  well.  Ah !  you  may  stare ;  but  this  is  not 
the  furniture  I  started  with  ;  I  sold  it  all  when  1  came  to  my 
senses,  and  put  in  this  tumble-down  second-hand  stuff,  and  I 
have  worn  out  my  fine  clothes.  I  know  I'm  not  well  dressed 
now.  (Tom  nodded  ready  acquiescence  to  this  position.) 
Yes,  though  I  still  wince  a  little  now  and  then — a  good  deal 


86  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORL. 

oftener  than  I  like — I  don't  carry  any  false  colors.  I  can't 
quite  conquer  the  feeling  of  shame  (for  shame  it  is,  I  am 
afraid),  but  at  any  rate,  I  don't  try  to  hide  my  poverty  any 
longer,  I  haven't  for  •  hese  eighteen  months.  I  have  a  grim 
sort  of  pleasure  in  pushing  it  in  everybody's  face.  (Tom  as- 
sented with  a  smile,  remembering  how  excessively  uncomfort- 
able  Hard}  had  made  him  by  this  little  peculiarity  the  first 
time  he  was  in  his  rooms.)  The  first  thing  which  opened  my 
eyes  a  little  wa»  the  conduct  of  the  tradesmen.  My  bills  all 
came  in  within  a  week  of  the  delivery  of  the  furniture  and 
clothes ;  some  of  them  wouldn't  leave  the  things  without  pay- 
ment. I  was  very  angry  and  vexed  ;  not  at  the  bills,  for  I  had 
my  savings,  which  were  much  more  than  enough  to  pay  for 
everything.  But  I  knew  that  these  same  tradesmen  never 
thought  of  asking  for  payment  under  a  year,  oftener  two, 
from  other  men.  Well,  it  was  a  lesson.  Credit  for  gentle' 
men-commoners,  ready-money  dealings  with  servitors !  I  owe 
the  Oxford  tradesmen  much  for  that  lesson.  If  they  would 
only  treat  every  man  who  comes  up  as  a  servitor,  it  would 
save  a  d^al  of  misery. 

"My  cure  was  completed  by  much  higher  folk,  though.  I 
can't  go  through  the  whole  treatment,  but  will  give  you  a 
specimen  or  two  of  the  doses,  giving  precedence  (as  is  the  way 
here)  to  those  administered  by  the  highest  in  rank.  I  got 
them  from  al'  sors  of  people,  but  none  did  me  more  good  than 
the  lords'  pills.  Amongst  other  ways  of  getting  on,  I  took  to 
sparring,  which  was  then  very  much  in  vogue.  I  am  a  good 
hand  at  it,  and  very  fond  of  it,  so  that  it  wasn't  altogether 
flunkeyism,  I'm  glad  to  think.  In  my  second  term  two  or 
three  fighting  men  came  down  from  London,  and  gave  a  benefit, 
at  the  weirs.  I  was  there,  and  set  to  with  one  of  them.  We 
were  well  matched,  and  both  of  us  did  our  very  best ;  and 
when  we  had  had  our  turn  we  drew  down  the  house,  as  they 
say.  Several  young  tufts  and  others  of  the  faster  men  came 
up  to  me  afterwards  and  complimented  me.  They  did  the 
same  by  the  professional,  but  it  didn't  occur  to  me  at  the  time 
that  they  put  us  both  in  the  same  category. 

"I  am  free  to  own  that  I  was  really  pleased  two  days  after- 
wards, when  a  most  elaborate  flunkey  brought  a  card  to  my 
door  inscribed,  '  The  Viscount  Philippine,  Ch.  Ch.,  at  home  to- 
night, eight  o'clock  —  sparring.'  Luckily,  I  made  a  light 
dinner,  and  went  sharp  to  time  Jnto  Christ  Church.  The 
porter  directed  me  to  the  noble  viscount's  rooms ;  they  were 
most  splendid  certainly — first-floor  rooms  in  Peckwater.  I 
was  shown  into  the  large  room,  which  was  magnificently  fur- 


HARDY'S  HISTORY.  87 

nished  and  lighted.  A  good  space  was  cleared  in  the  centre ; 
there  were  all  sorts  of  bottles  and  glasses  on  the  sideboard. 
There  might  have  been  twelve  or  fourteen  men  present,  al- 
most all  in  tufts  or  gentlemen-commoners'  caps.  One  or  two 
of  our  college  I  recognized.  The  fighting-man  was  also  there, 
stripped  for  sparring,  which  none  of  the  rest  were.  It  was 
plain  that  the  sport  haoi  not  begun  ;  I  think  he  was  doing  some 
trick  of  strength  as  J  came  in.  My  noble  host  came  forward 
with  a  nod,  and  askc-d  me  if  I  would  take  anything,  and,  when 
I  declined,  said,  *  Then  will  you  put  on  the  gloves  ? '  I  looked 
»t  him  rather  surprised,  and  thought  it  an  odd  way  to  treat 
the  only  stranger  m  his  own  rooms.  However,  I  stripped, 
put  on  the  gloves,  and  one  of  the  others  came  forward  to  tie 
them  for  rne.  While  he  was  doing  it  I  heard  my  host  say  to 
the  man,  *  A  five-pound  note,  mind,  if  you  do  it  within  the 
quarter  of  an  hour.'  '  Oiily  half-minute  time  then,  my  lord,' 
he  answered.  The  man  who  was  tying  my  gloves  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  '  Be  steady,  don't  give  him  a  chance  to  knock  you 
down.'  It  flashed  across  me  in  a  moment  now  why  I  was 
there ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back,  so  we  stood  up  and 
began  sparring.  I  played  very  steadily  and  light  at  first,  to 
see  whether  my  suspicions  were  well  founded,  and  in  two 
minutes  I  was  satisfied.  My  opponent  tried  every  dodge 
to  bring  on  a  rally,  and  when  he  was  foiled,  I  could  see 
that  he  was  shifting  his  glove.  I  stopped  and  insisted 
that  his  gloves  should  be  tied,  and  then  we  went  on  again. 

"  I  kept  on  the  defensive.  The  man  was  in  bad  training, 
s^nd  luckily  I  had  the  advantage  by  an  inch  or  so  in  length  of 
arm.  Before  five  minutes  were  over,  I  hnd  caught  enough  of 
4he  bystanders'  remarks  to  know  that  my  noble  host  had  betted 
*  pony  that  I  should  be  knocked  down  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
My  one  object  now  was  to  make  him  lose  his  money.  My 
opponent  did  his  utmost  for  his  patron,  and  fairly  winded  him- 
self in  his  efforts  to  get  at  me.  He  had  to  call  time  twice 
himself.  I  said  not  a  word ;  my  turn  would  come,  I  knew,  if 
I  could  keep  on  my  legs,  and  of  this  I  had  little  fear.  I  held 
myself  together,  made  no  attack,  and  my  length  of  arm  gave  me 
the  advantage  in  every  counter.  It  was  all  I  could  do,  though, 
to  keep  clear  of  his  rushes  as  the  time  drew  on.  On  he  came, 
time  after  time,  careless  of  guarding,  and  he  was  full  as  good 
a  man  as  I.  '  Time's  up ;  it's  past  the  quarter.'  '  No,  by 
Jove,  half  a  minute  yet ;  now's  your  time,'  said  my  noble  host 
to  his  man,  who  answered  by  a  last  rush.  I  met  him  as  before, 
with  a  steady  counter  ;  but  this  time,  by  good  luck,  my  blow 
got  home  under  his  chin,  and  he  staggered,  lost  his  footing,  and 
went  fairly  over  on  to  his  back. 


88  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Most  of  the  bystanders  seemed  delighted,  and  some  of 
them  hurried  towards  me.  But  I  tore  off  the  gloves,  flung 
them  on  the  ground,  and  turned  to  my  host.  I  could  hardlv 
speak,  but  I  made  an  effort,  and  said,  quickly,  '  You  have 
brought  a  stranger  to  your  rooms,  and  have  tried  to  make 
him  tight  for  your  amusement ;  now  I  tell  you  it  is  a  black- 
guard act  of  yours — an  act  which  no  gentleman  would  have 
done.'  My  noble  host  made  no  remark.  I  threw  on  my  coat 
and  waistcoat,  and  then  turned'  to  the  rest  and  said,  'Gentle- 
men would  not  have  stood  by  and  seen  it  done.'  I  went  up  to 
the  sideboard,  uncorked  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  half  filled 
a  tumbler  before  a  word  was  spoken.  Then  one  of  the  visitors 
stepped  forward  and  said,  '  Mr.  Hardy,  I  hope  you  won't  go  ; 
there  has  been  a  mistake  ;  we  did  not  know  of  this.  I  am 
sure  many  of  us  are  very  sorry  for  what  has  occurred ;  stay 
and  look  on,  we  will  all  of  us  spar.'  I  looked  at  him,  and  then 
at  my  host,  to  see  whether  the  latter  joined  in  the  apology. 
Not  he ;  he  was  doing  the  dignified  sulky,  and  most  of  the  rest 
seemed  to  me  to  be  with  him.  'Will  any  of  you  spar  with 
me  ? '  I  said,  tauntingly  ;  tossing  off  the  champagne.  *  Cer- 
tainly,' the  new  speaker  said  directly,  '  if  you  wish  it,  and  are 
not  too  tired.  I  will  spar  with  you  myself;  you  will,  won't 
you,  James?'  and  he  turned  to  one  of  the  other  men.  If  any 
of  them  had  backed  him  by  a  word  I  should  probably  have 
stayed.  Several  of  them,  I  learnt  afterwards,  would  have  liked 
to  have  done  so,  but  it  was  an  awkward  scene  to  interfere  in. 
I  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  a  sneer:  'You're 
too  small,  and  none  of  the  other  gentlemen  seem  inclined  to 
offer.' 

"  I  saw  that  I  haa  hurt  him,  and  felt  pleased  at  the  moment 
that  I  had  done  so.  I  was  now  ready  to  start,  and  I  could  not 
think  of  anything  more  unpleasant  to  say  at  the  moment ;  so 
I  went  up  to  my  antagonist,  who  was  standing  with  the  gloves 
on  still,  not  quite  knowing  what  to  be  at,  and  held  out  my  hand. 
*  I  can  shake  hands  with  you,  at  any  rate,'  I  said  ;  '  you  only  did 
what  you  were  paid  for  in  the  regular  way  of  business,  and  you 
did  your  best.'  He  looked  rather  sheepish,  but  held  out  his 
gloved  hand,  which  I  shook.  '  Now  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you 
all  a  very  good  evening;'  and  so  J  left  the  place  and  got  home 
to  my  own  rooms,  and  sat  down  there  with  several  new  ideas  in 
my  head.  On  the  whole,  the  lesson  was  not  a  very  bitter  one, 
for  I  felt  that  I  had  had  the  best  of  the  game.  The  only  thing 
I  really  was  sorry  for,  was  my  own  insolence  to  the  man  who 
had  come  forward  as  a  peacemaker.  I  had  remarked  his  face 
before.  I  doii't  kuow  how  it  is  with  you,  but  I  can  never  help 


HARDY'S  HISTORY.  89 

looking  at  a  tuft — the  gold  tassel  draws  one's  eyes  somehow : 
and  then  it's  an  awful  position,  after  all,  for  mere  boys  to  be 
placed  in.  So  I  knew  his  face  before  that  day,  though  I  had 
only  seen  him  two  or  three  times  in  the  street.  Now  it  was 
much  more  clearly  impressed  on  my  mind  ;  and  I  called  it  up 
and  looked  it  over,  half  hoping  that  I  should  detect  something 
to  justify  me  to  myself,  but  without  success.  However,  I  got 
the  whole  affair  pretty  well  out  of  my  head  by  bedtime. 

"While  I  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  my  scout  came 
in  with  a  face  of  the  most  ludicrous  importance,  and  quite  a  def- 
erential manner.  I  declare  I  don't  think  he  has  ever  got  back 
since  that  day  to  his  original  free-and-easy  swagger.  He  laid  a 
card  on  my  table,  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  'His  ludship 
is  houtside  waitin ,  sir.' 

"  I  had  had  enough  of  lords'  cards ;  and  the  scene  of  yester- 
day rose  painfully  before  me  as  I  threw  the  card  into  the  fire 
without  looking  at  it,  and  said,  *Tell  him  I  am  engaged.' 

"  My  scout,  with  something  like  a  shudder  at  my  audacity, 
replied,  *  His  ludship  told  me  to  say,  sir,  as  his  bis'ness  was  very 
particular,  so  hif  you  was  engaged  he  would  call  again  in  half 
an  hour.' 

"  '  Tell  him  to  come  in,  then,  if  he  won't  take  a  civil  hint.' 
I  felt  sure  who  it  would  be,  but  hardly  knew  whether  to  be 
pleased  or  annoyed,  when  in  another  minute  the  door  opened, 
and  in  walked  the  peacemaker.  I  don't  know  which  of  us  was 
most  embarrassed ;  he  walked  straight  up  to  me  without  lifting 
his  eyes,  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying,  *  I  hope,  Mr.  Hardy,  you 
will  shake  hands  with  me  now.' 

" '  Certainly,  my  lord,'  I  said,  taking  his  hand.  '  I  am  sorry 
for  what  I  said  to  you  yesterday,  when  my  blood  was  up.' 

"  *  You  said  no  more  than  we  deserved,'  he  answered,  twirling 
his  cap  by  the  long  gold  tassel ;  '  I  could  not  be  comfortable 
without  coming  to  assure  you  again  myself,  that  neither  I,  nor, 
1  believe,  half  the  men  in  Philippine's  rooms  yesterday,  knew 
anything  of  the  bet.  I  really  cannot  tell  you  how  annoyed 
1  have  been  about  it.' 

"  I  assured  him  that  he  might  make  himself  quite  easy,  and 
then  remained  standing,  expecting  him  to  go,  and  not  knowing 
exactly  what  to  say  further.  But  he  begged  me  to  go  on  with 
my  breakfast,  and  sat  down,  and  then  asked  me  to  give  him  a 
cup  of  tea,  as  he  had  not  breakfasted.  So  in  a  few  minutes  we 
were  sitting  opposite  one  another,  over  tea  and  bread  and  butter, 
for  he  didn  t  ask  for  and  I  didn't  offer  anything  else.  It  was 
rather  a  trying  meal,  for  each  of  us  was  doing  all  he  could  to 
make  out  the  other.  I  only  hope  I  was  as  pleasant  as  he  was. 


90  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

After  breakfast  be  went,  and  I  thought  the  acquaintance  was 
probably  at  an  end  ;  he  had  done  all  that  a  gentleman  need 
have  done,  and  had  well-nigh  healed  a  raw  place  in  my  mental 

-     .  fJ  i  «J 

skin. 

"  But  I  was  mistaken.  Without  intruding  himself  on  me,  he 
managed  somehow  or  another  to  keep  on  building  up  the  ac- 
quaintance little  by  little.  For  some  time  I  looked  out  very 
jealously  for  any  patronizing  airs,  and  even  after  I  was  convinced 
that  he  had  nothing  of  the  sort  in  him,  avoided  him  as 
much  as  I  could,  though  he  was  the  most  pleasant  and  best- 
informed  man  I  knew.  However,  we  became  intimate,  and  I 
saw  a  good  deal  of  him,  in  a  quiet  way,  at  his  own  rooms.  I 
wouldn't  go  to  his  parties,  and  asked  him  not  to  come  to  me 
here,  for  my  horror  of  being  thought  a  tuft  hunter  had  become 
almost  a  disease.  He  was  not  so  old  as  I,  but  he  was  just  leav- 
ing the  university,  for  he  had  come  up  early,  and  lords'  sons 
are  allowed  to  go  out  in  two  years, — I  suppose  because  the  au- 
thorities think  they  will  do  less  harm  here  in  two  than  in  three 
years ; — but  it  is  somewhat  hard  on  poor  men,  who  have  to  earn 
their  bread,  to  see  such  a  privilege  given  to  those  who  want  it 
least.  When  he  left,  he  made  me  promise  to  go  and  pay  him  a 
visit — which  I  did  in  the  long  vacation,  at  a  splendid  place  up 
in  the  north,  and  enjoyed  myself  more  than  I  care  to  own.  His 
father  who,  is  quite  worthy  of  his  son,  and  all  his  family,  were 
as  kind  as  people  could  be.  Well,  amongst  other  folk,  I  met 
there  a  youg  sprig  of  nobility,  who  was  coming  up  here  the  next 
term.  He  had  been  brought  up  abroad,  and  I  suppose  knew 
very  few  men  of  his  own  age  in  England.  Well,  he  was  not  a 
bad  style  of  boy,  but  rather  too  demonstrative,  and  not  strong 
headed.  He  took  to  me  wonderfully,  was  delighted  to  hear 
that  I  was  up  at  Oxford,  and  talked  constantly  of  how  much  we 
should  see  of  one  another.  As  it  happened,  I  was  almost  the 
first  man  he  met  when  he  got  off  the  coach  at  the  '  Angel,'  at 
the  beginning  of  his  first  term.  He  almost  embraced  me,  and 
nothing  would  serve  but  I  must  dine  with  him  at  the  inn,  and 
WG  spent  the  evening  together,  and  parted  dear  friends.  Two 
days  afterwards  we  met  in  the  street ;  he  was  with  two  other 
youngsters,  and  gave  me  a  polished  and  distant  bow.  In  another 
week  he  passed  me  as  if  we  had  never  met. 

"  I  don't  blame  him,  poor  boy.  My  only  wonder  is  that  any 
any  of  them  ever  got  through  this  place  without  being  thor- 
oughly spoilt.  From  vice-chancellor  down  to  scout's  boy,  the 
whole  of  Oxford  seems  to  be  in  league  to  turn  their  heads,  even 
if  they  come  up  with  them  set  on  straight,  which  toadying  set* 
vants  take  care  shall  never  happen  if  they  can  hinder  it.  The 


A  BROWN  BAIT.  91 

only  men  who  would  do  them  good  up  here,  both  dons  and  un- 
dergraduates, keep  out  of  their  way,  very  naturally.  Gentlemen- 
commoners  have  a  little  better  chance,  though  not  much,  and 
seem  to  me  to  be  worse  than  the  tufts,  and  to  furnish  most  of 
their  toadies. 

"  Well,  are  you  tired  of  my  railing  ?  I  dare  say  I  am  rabid 
about  it  all.  Only  it  does  go  to  my  heart  to  think  what  this 
place  might  be  and  what  it  is.  I  see  I  needn't  give  you  any 
more  of  my  experience. 

"You'll  understand,  now,  some  of  the  things  that  have 
puzzled  you  about  me.  Oh!  I  know  they  did.  You  needn't  look 
apologetic.  I  don't  wonder,  or  blame  you.  I  am  a  very  queer 
bird  for  the  perch  I  have  lit  on ;  I  know  that  as  well  as  any- 
body. The  only  wonder  is  that  you  ever  took  the  trouble  to 
try  to  lime  me.  Now  have  another  glass  of  toddy.  Why !  it 
is  near  twelve.  I  must  have  one  pipe,  and  turn  in.  No  Arip- 
tophanes  to-night." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  BKOWN  BAIT. 

Ton's  little  exaltation  in  his  own  eyes  consequent  on  tht 
cupboard-smashing  escapade  of  his  friend  was  not  to  last  long. 
Not  a  week  had  elapsed  before  he  himself  arrived  suddenly  in 
Hardy's  room,  in  as  furious  a  state  of  mind  as  the  other  had  so 
lately  been  in,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  the  men.  Hardy 
looked  up  from  his  books,  and  exclaimed, — 

"What's  the  matter?  Where  have  you  been  to-night  ?  You 
look  fiei-ce  enough  to  sit  for  the  portrait  of  Sanguinoso  Volca- 
noni,  the  bandit." 

"  Been,"  said  Tom,  sitting  down  on  the  spare  Windsor  chair 
which  he  usually  occupied,  so  hard  as  to  make  it  crack  again, — 
"been  !  I've  been  to  a  wine  party  at  Hendon's.  Do  you  know 
any  of  that  set  ?  " 

"  No  ;  except  Grey,  who  came  into  residence  in  the  same  term 
with  me.  We  have  been  reading  for  degree  together.  You 
must  have  seen  him  here  sometimes  in  the  evenings." 

"  Yes,  I  remember ;  the  follow  with  a  stiff  neck,  who  won't 
look  you  in  the  face." 

"  Ay ;  but  he  is  a  sterling  man  at  the  bottom,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"Well,  he  wasn't  there.    You  don't  know  any  of  the  rest?" 

"No." 


92  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"And  never  went  to  any  of  their  parlies?" 

"No." 

"  You've  had  no  loss,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Tom,  pleased  that 
the  ground  was  clear  for  him ;  "  I  never  was  amongst  such  a 
•et  of  waspish,  dogmatical,  overbearing  fellows  in  my  life." 

"  Why,  what  in  the  name  of  fortune  have  they  been  doing 
to  you  ?  How  did  you  fall  among  such  Philistines  ?  " 

"  I'm  such  an  easy  fool,  you  see,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  go  off 
directly  with  any  fellow  that  asks  me  ;  fast  or  slow,  it's  all  the 
same.  I  never  think  twice  about  the  matter,  and  generally,  I 
like  all  the  fellows  I  meet,  and  enjoy  everything;  but  just 
catch  me  at  another  of  their  stuck-up  wines,  that's  all !  " 

"But  you  won't  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  why  Hendon  should  have  nsked  me. 
He  can't  think  me  a  likely  card  for  a  convert,  I  should  think. 
At  any  rate,  he  asked  me  to  wine,  and  I  went  as  usual.  Every 
thing  was  in  capital  style  (it  don't  seem  to  be  any  part  of  their 
creed,  mind  you,  to  drink  bad  wine),  and  awfully  gentlemanly 
and  decorous." 

"  Yes,  that's  aggravating,  I  admit.  It  would  have  been  in 
better  taste,  of  course,  if  they  had  been  a  little  blackguard  and 
indecorous.  No  doubt,  too,  one  has  a  right  to  expect  bad  wine 
at  Oxford.  Well?" 

Hardy  spoke  so  gravely,  that  Tom  had  to  look  across  at  him 
for  half  a  minute.  Then  he  went  on  with  a  grin. 

"  There  was  a  piano  in  one  corner,  and  muslin  curtains — I 
give  you  my  word,  muslin  curtains,  besides  the  stuff  ones." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  said  Hardy;  "  put  up,  no  doubt,  to 
insult  you.  No  wonder  you  looked  so  furious  when  you  came 
in.  Anything  else?" 

"  Let  me  see — yes — I  counted  three  sorts  of  scents  on  the 
mantelpiece,  besides  eau  de  Cologne.  But  I  could  have  stood 
it  all  well  enough  if  it  hadn't  been  for  their  talk.  From  one 
thing  to  another  they  got  to  cathedrals,  and  one  of  them  called 
St.  Paul's  *  a  disg-race  to  a  Christian  city.'  I  couldn't  stand 
that,  you  know.  I  was  always  bred  to  respect  St.  Paul's ; 
weren't  you  ?  " 

"My  education  in  that  line  was  neglected,"  said  Hardy, 
gravely  ;  "  and  so  you  took  up  the  cudgels  for  St.  Paul's  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  plumped  out  that  St.  Paul's  was  the  finest  cathedral 
in  England.  You'd  have  thought  I  had  said  that  lying  was 
one  of  the  cardinal  virtues — one  or  two  just  treated  me  to  a 
Bort  of  pitying  sneer,  but  my  neighbors  were  down  upon  me 
with  a  vengeance.  I  stuck  to  my  text  though,  and  they  drove 
me  into  saying  I  liked  the  Ratcliffe  more  than  any  building  in 


A  BROWN  BAIT.  88 

Oxford ;  which  I  don't  believe  I  do,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 
So  when  they  couldn't  get  me  to  budge  for  their  talk,  they  took 
to  telling  me  that  everybody  who  knew  anything  about  church 
architecture  was  against  me — of  course,  meaning  that  I  knew 
nothing  about  it — for  the  matter  of  that,  I  don't  mean  to  saj 
ihat  I  do  " — Tom  paused :  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him  tha> 
there  might  be  some  reason  in  the  rougl:  handling  he  had  got 

"  But  what  did  you  say  to  the  authorities  ?  "  said  Hardy,  whc 
was  greatly  amused. 

"  Said  I  didn't  care  a  straw  for  them,"  said  Tom ;  "  there 
was  no  right  or  wrong  in  the  matter,  and  I  had  as  good  a  right 
to  my  opinion  as  Pugin — or  whatever  his  name  is — and  the 
rest." 

"  "What  heresy ! "  said  Hardy,  laughing ;  "  you  caught  it  for 
that,  I  suppose?" 

"Didn't  I  !  They  made  such  a  noise  over  it,  that  the  men 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  stopped  talking  (they  were  all 
freshmen  at  our  end),  and  when  they  found  what  was  up,  one 
of  the  older  ones  took  me  in  hand,  and  I  got  a  lecture  about 
the  middle  ages,  and  the.  monks.  I  said  I  thought  England 
was  well  rid  of  the  monks  ;  and  then  we  got  on  to  Protestant- 
ism, and  fasting,  and  apostolic  succession,  and  passive  obedi- 
ence, and  I  don't  know  what  all !  I  only  know  I  was  tired 
enough  of  it  before  coffee  came ;  but  I  couldn't  go,  you  know, 
with  all  of  them  on  me  at  once  ;  could  I  ?  " 

"Of  course  not;  you  were  like  the  six  thousand  unconquer- 
able British  infantry  at  Albuera.  You  held  your  position  by 
sheer  figthing,  suffering  fearful  loss." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  laughing,  for  he  had  talked  himself  into 
good  humor  again,  "  I  dare  say  I  talked  a  deal  of  nonsense  ; 
and,  when  I  come  to  think  it  over,  a  good  deal  of  what  some  of 
them  said  had  something  in  it.  I  should  like  to  hear  it  again, 
quietly,  but  there  were  others  sneering  and  giving  themselve? 
airs,  and  that  puts  a  fellow's  back  up." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hardy ;  "  a  good  many  of  the  weakest  and 
vainest  men  who  come  up  take  to  this  sort  of  thing  no\v.  They 
can  do  nothing  themselves,  and  get  a  sort  of  platform  by  going 
in  for  the  High  Church  business  from  which  to  look  down  on 
their  neighbors." 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,"  said  Tom;  "they  tried  to 
push  mother  Church,  mother  Church,  down  my  throat  at  every 
turn.  I'm  as  fond  of  the  Church  as  any  of  them,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  jumping  up  on  her  back  every  minute,  like  a  tickly 
chicken  getting  on  the  old  hen's  back  to  warm  his  feet  whenever 
the  ground  is  cold,  and  fancvjjig  himself  taller  than  all  the  rea 
of  the  brood" 


94  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  You  were  unlucky,"  said  Hardy ;  "  there  are  some  very 
fine  fellows  amongst  them." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  seen  much  of  them,"  said  Tom,  "  and  I 
don't  want  to  see  any  more,  for  it  seems  to  me  all  a  Gothic- 
mouldings  and  man-millinery  business." 

"You  won't  think  so  when  you've  been  up  a  little  longer," 
said  Hardy,  getting  up  to  make  tea,  which  operation  he  had 
hardly  commenced,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door,  and  in 
answer  to  Hardy's  "  Come  in,"  a  slight,  shy  man  appeared, 
who  hesitated,  and  seemed  inclined  to  go  when  he  saw  that 
Hardy  was  not  alone. 

"Oh!  come  in,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Grey.  You  know 
Brown,  I  think  ?  "  said  Hardy,  looking  round  from  the  fire, where 
he  was  filling  his  teapot,  to  watch  Tom's  reception  of  the  new- 
comer. 

Our  hero  took  his  feet  down,  drew  himself  up,  and  made  a 
solemn  bow,  which  Grey  returned,  and  then  sidled  nervously 
on  to  a  chair,  and  looked  very  uncomfortable.  However,  in 
another  minute  Hnrdy  came  to  the  rescue,  and  began  pouring 
out  the  tea.  He  was  evidently  tickled  at  the  idea  of  confront- 
ing Tom  so  soon  with  another  of  his  enemies.  Tom  saw  this, 
and  put  on  a  cool  and  majestic  manner  in  consequence,  which 
evidently  increased  the  discomfort  of  Grey's  seat,  and  kept 
Hardy  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss  of  laughter.  In  fact,  he  had  to 
ease  himself  by  talking  of  other  indifferent  matters,  and  laugh- 
ting  at  nothing.  Tom  had  never  seen  him  in  this  sort  of  humor 
before,  and  couldn't  help  enjoying  it,  though  he  felt  that  it 
was  partly  at  his  own  expense.  However,  when  Hardy  once 
just  approached  the  subject  of  the  wine  party.  Tom  bristled 
up  so  quickly,  and  Grey  looked  so  meekly  wretched,  though  he 
knew  nothing  of  what  was  coming,  that  Hardy,  suddenly 
changed  the  subject,  and  turning  to  Grey,  said, — 

"What  have  you  been  doing  the  last  fortnight?  You 
haven't  been  here  once.  I've  been  obliged  to  get  on  with  my 
Aristotle  without  you." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  indeed ;  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  come," 
said  Grey,  looking  sideways  at  Hardy,  and  then  at  Tom,  who 
eat  regarding  the  wall,  supremely  indifferent. 

"  Well,  I've  finished  my  ethics,"  said  Hardy ;  "  can't  you 
come  in  to-morrow  night  to  talk  them  over?  I  suppose 
you're  through  them,  too  ?  " 

"  No,  really,"  said  Grey,  "  I  haven't  been  able  to  look  at 
them  since  the  last  time  I  was  here." 

**  You  must  take  care,"  said  Hardy ;  "  the  new  examiners 
are  all  for  science  and  history.  It  won't  do  for  you  to  go  in 
trusting  to  your  scholarship." 


A  SHOWN  BAIT.  95 

"  I  hope  to  make  it  up  in  the  Easter  vacation,'*  said  Grey. 

"You  11  have  enough  to  do,  then,"  said  Hardy.  "But  how 
Js  it  you've  dropped  astern  so  ? " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  Grey,  hesitatingly,  "  that  the  curate 
of  St.  Peter's  has  set  up  some  night-schools,  and  wanted  some 
help.  So  I  have  been  doing  what  I  could  to  help  him  ;  and 
really,"  looking  at  his  watch,  "  I  must  be  going ;  I  only  wanted 
to  tell  you  how  it  was  I  didn't  come  now. 

Hardy  looked  at  Tom,  who  was  taken  rather  aback  by  this 
announcement,  and  began  to  look  less  haughtily  at  the  wall. 
He  even  condescended  to  take  a  short  glance  at  his  neighbor. 

"  It's  unlucky,"  said  Hardy ;  "  but  do  you  teach  every 
night?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Grey.  "  I  used  to  do  my  science  and  history  at. 
night,  you  know  ;  but  I  find  that  teaching  takes  so  much  ouV 
of  me,  that  I'm  only  fit  for  bed  now.  However,  I'm  so  glac\ 
I've  told  you.  I  have  wanted  to  do  it  for  some  time.  And  il 
you  would  let  me  come  in  for  an  hour  directly  after  hall,  in- 
stead of  later,  I  think  I  could  still  manage  that." 

'*  Of  course,"  said  Hardy ;  come  when  you  like.  But  it's 
rather  hard  to  take  you  away  every  night,  so  near  the  examina- 
tions." 

"It  is  my  own  wish,"  said  Grey.  "I  should  have  been  very 
glad  if  it  hadn't  happened  just  now ;  but  as  it  has,  I  must  do 
the  best  I  can." 

"  Well,  but  I  should  like  to  help  you.  Can't  I  take  a  night 
or  two  off  your  hands?" 

"  No  ! "  said  Tom,  fired  with  a  sudden  enthusiasm ;  "  it  will 
be  as  bad  for  you,  Hardy.  It  can't  want  much  scholarship  to 
teach  there.  Let  me  go.  I'll  take  two  nights  a  week,  if  you'll 
let  me." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Grey;  "but  I  don't  know  how  my 
friend  might  like  it.  That  is — I  mean,"  he  said,  getting  very 
red,  "  it's  very  kind  of  you,  only  I  'm  used  to  it ;  and — and 
they  rely  on  me.  But  I  really  must  go ;  good-night ; "  and 
Grey  went  off  in  confusion. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  fairly  closed,  Hardy  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair  laughing  till  the  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks.  Tom,  wholly  unable  to  appreciate  the  joke, 
eat  looking  at  him  with  perfect  gravity. 

"  What  can  there  be  in  your  look,  Brown,"  said  Hardy, 
when  he  could  speak  again,  "  to  frighten  Grey  so  ?  Did  you 
see  what  a  fright  he  was  in  at  once,  at  the  idea  of  turning  you 
into  the  night-schools  ?  There  must  be  some  lurking  Protes- 
tantism in  your  face  somewhere,  which  I  hadn't  detected." 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  was  frightened  at  me  a  bit.  He  wouldn't 
have  you  either,  remember,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  that  don't  look  as  if  it  were  all  mere 
Gothic  mouldings  and  man-millinery,  does  it?"  said  Hardy. 

Tom  sipped  his  tea  and  considered. 

"One  can't  help  admiring  him,  do  you  know, for  it," he  said. 
"  Do  you  think  he  is  really  thrown  back  now  in  his  own  read- 
ing by  this  teaching?" 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.  He  is  such  a  quiet  fellow,  that  nothing  else 
is  likely  to  draw  him  off  reading;  and  I  can  see  that  he  doesn't 
get  on  as  he  used,  day  by  day.  Unless  he  makes  it  up  some- 
how, he  wont  get  his  first." 

"  He  don't  seem  to  like  the  teaching  work  much,"  said  Tom. 

"  Quite  the  contrary  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  Then  it  is  a  very  fine  thing  of  him,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  you  retract  your  man-millinery  dictum,  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned?" 

"Yes,  that  I  do,  heartily;  but  not  as  to  the  set  in  general." 

"  Well,  they  don't  suit  me  either;  but,  on  the  whole,  they 
are  wanted,  at  any  rate,  in  this  college.  Even  the  worst  of 
them  is  making  some  sort  of  protest  for  self-denial  and  against 
self-indulgence,  which  is  nowhere  more  needed  than  here." 

"  A  nice  sort  of  protest — muslin  curtains,  a  piano,  and  thirty- 
four  claret." 

"Oh,  you've  no  right  to  count  Ilendon  among  them ;  he  has 
only  a  little  hankering  after  medisevalism,  and  thinks  the  whole 
thing  gentlemanly." 

"  I  only  know  the  whole  clamjamfery  of  them  were  there,  and 
didn't  seem  to  protest  much." 

"  Brown  you're  a  bigot.  I  should  never  have  thought  you 
would  have  been  so  furious  against  any  set  of  fellows.  I  begin 
to  smell  Arnold." 

"  No,  you  don't.     He  never  spoke  to  me  against  anybody." 

"  Halloo  1  It  was  the  Rugby  atmosphere,  then,  I  suppose. 
But  I  tell  you  they  are  the  only  men  in  this  college  who  are 
making  that  protest,  whatever  their  motives  may  be." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  yourself,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"Nonsense!  I  never  deny  myself  any  pleasure  that  I  can 
afford,  if  it  isn't  wrong  in  itself,  and  doesn't  hinder  any  one 
else.  I  can  tell  you,  I'm  as  fond  of  fine  things  and  good  living 
as  you." 

"  If  it  isn't  wrong,  and  you  can  afford  it,  and  don't  hurt  any- 
body !  Just  so.  Well,  then,  mustn't  it  be  right  for  you  to 
have?  You  wouldn't  have  it  put  under  your  nose,  I  suppose, 
just  for  you  to  smell  at  it,  and  let  it  alone?" 


A  SHOWN  23 AIT.  97 

**  Yes ;  I  know  all  that.  I've  been  over  it  all  often  enough, 
and  there's  truth  in  it.  But,  mind  you,  it's  rather  slippery 
ground,  especially  for  a  freshman.  And  there's  a  great  deal  to 
be  said  on  the  other  side — I  mean,  for  denying  one's  self  just 
for-  the  sake  of  the  self-denial." 

"Well  they  don't  deny  themselves  the  pleasure  of  looking  at 
a  fellow,  as  if  he  were  a  Turk  because  he  likes  St.  Paul's  better 
than  Westminster  Ab);ey." 

"  How  that  snubbing  you  got  at  the  ecclesiological  wine  party 
seems  to  rankle —  There,  now !  don't  bristle  up  like  a  hedge- 
hog. I'll  never  mention  that  unfortunate  wine  again.  I  saw 
the  eight  come  in  to-day.  You  are  keeping  much  better  time  ; 
but  there  is  a  weak  place  or  two  forward." 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  delighted  to  change  the  subject ;  "I  find 
it  awfully  hard  to  pull  up  to  Jervis'  sti'oke.  Do  you  think  I 
shall  ever  get  to  it?" 

"Of  course  you  will.  Why,  you  have  only  been  pulling 
behind  him  a  dozen  times  or  so,  and  his  is  the  most  trying 
stroke  on  the  river.  You  quicken  a  little  on  it ;  but  I  didn't 
mean  you.  Two  and  five  are  the  blots  in  the  boat." 

"  Yoii  think  so  ?  "  said  Tom,  much  relieved.  "  So  does 
Miller,  I  can  see.  It's  so  pi-o voicing — Dry sd ale  is  to  pull  two 
in  the  races  next  term,  and  Blake  seven,  and  then  Diogenes 
will  go  to  five.  He's  obliged  to  pull  seven  now,  because  Blake 
won't  come  down  this  term  ;  no  more  will  Drysdale.  They 
jay  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  after  Easter." 

"  It's  a  great  pity,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Isn't  it  ? "  said  Tom ;  "  and  it  makes  Miller  so  savage. 
He  walks  into  us  nil  as  if  it  were  our  faults.  Do  you  think  he's 
a  good  coxswain  ?  " 

"First-rate  on  most  points,  but  rather  too  sharp-tongued. 
You  can't  get  a  man's  best  out  of  him  without  a  little  praise." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it;  he  puts  one's  back  up,"  said  Tom. 
"  But  the  captain  is  a  splendid  fellow ;  isn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  but  a  little  too  easy,  at  least  with  men  like  Blake 
and  Drysdale.  He  ought  to  make  them  train  or  turn  them 
out." 

"But  whom  could  he  get?  There's  nobody  else.  If  you 
would  pull,  now — why  shouldn't  you?  I'm  sure  it  would 
make  us  all  right." 

"I  don't  subscribe  to  the  club,"  said  Hardy.  "I  wish  I 
had,  for  I  should  like  to  have  pulled  with  you  and  behind 
Jervis  this  year." 

"  Do  let  me  tell  the  captain,"  said  Tom ;  "  I'm  sure  he'd 
manage  it  somehow." 


98  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  late,"  said  Hardy;  "I  cut  myself  off 
from  everything  of  the  sort  two  years  ago,  and  I'm  beginning 
to  think  I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject  at  the  time,  but  Tom 
went  away  in  great  spirits  'at  having  drawn  this  confession  out 
of  Hardy — the  more  so,  perhaps,  because  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  had  had  something  to  say  to  the  change  in  his  friend. 
From  this  time  he  set  himself  to  work  on  the  problem  of  get- 
ting Hardy  into  the  racing  boat  of  St.  Ambrose's  College 


CHAPTER  X. 

SUMMER    TERM. 

How  many  spots  in  life  are  there  which  will  bear  compar* 
ison  with  the  beginning  of  our  second  term  at  the  university? 
So  far  as  external  circumstances  are  concerned,  it  seems  hard 
to  know  what  a  man  could  find  to  ask  for  at  that  period  of  his 
life,  if  a  fairy  godmother  were  to  alight  in  his  rooms  and  offer 
him  the  usual  three  wishes.  The  sailor  who  had  asked  for 
"all  the  grog  in  the  world,"  and  "all  the  baccy  in  the  world,0 
was  indeed  driven  to  "a  little  more  baccy"  as  his  third  requisi- 
tion ;  but,  at  any  rate,  his  two  first  requisitions  were  to  some 
extent  grounded  on  what  he  held  to  be  substantial  wants  ;  he 
felt  himself  actually  limited  in  the  matters  of  grog  and  tobacco. 
The  condition  which  Jack  would  have  been  in  as  a  wisher,  if 
he  had  been  started  on  his  quest  with  the  assurance  that  his 
utmost  desires  in  the  direction  of  alcohol  and  narcotics  were 
already  provided  for,  and  must  be  left  out  of  the  question,  is 
the  only  one  affording  a  pretty  exact  parallel  to  the  case  we 
are  considering.  In  our  second  term  we  are  no  longer  fresh- 
men, and  begin  to  feel  ourselves  at  home,  while  both  "  smalls  " 
and  *'  greats  "  are  sufficiently  distant  to  be  altogether  ignored, 
if  we  are  that  way  inclined,  or  to  be  looked  forward  to  with 
confidence  that  the  game  is  in  our  own  hands  if  we  arc  reading 
men.  Our  financial  position — unless  we  have  exercised  rare 
ingenuity  in  involving  ourselves^ ~is  all  that  heart  can  desire; 
we  have  ample  allowances  paid  in  quarterly  to  the  university 
bankers  without  thought  or  trouble  of  ours,  and  our  credit  is 
at  its  zenith.  It  is  a  part  of  our  recognized  duty  to  repay  the 
hospitality  we  have  received  as  freshmen  ;  and  all  men  will  be 
sure  to  come  to  our  first  parties,  to  see  how  we  do  the  thing  ; 
it  will  be  our  own  faults  if  we  do  not  keep  them  in  future. 


SUMMER  TERM.  99 

We  have  not  had  time  to  injure  our  characters  to  any  material 
extent  with  the  authorities  of  our  own  college,  or  of  the  uni- 
versity. Our  spirits  are  never  likely  to  be  higher,  or  our  di- 
gestions better.  These  and  many  other  comforts  and  advan- 
tages, environ  the  fortunate  youth  returning  to  Oxford  after 
his  first  vacation ;  thrice  fortunate,  however,  if,  as  happened 
in  our  hero's  case,  it  is  Easter  term  to  which  he  is  returning ; 
for  that  Easter  term  with  the  four  days'  vacation,  and  little 
Trinity  term  at  the  end  of  it,  is  surely  the  cream  of  the  Oxford 
year.  Then,  even  in  this,  our  stern  northern  climate,  the  sun 
is  beginning  to  have  power,  the  days  have  lengthened  out, 
greatcoats  are  unnecesssary  at  morning  chapel,  and  the  miseries 
of  numbed  hands  and  shivering  skins  no  longer  accompany 
eveiy  pull  on  the  river  and  canter  on  Bullingdon.  In  Christ 
Church  meadows  aud  the  college  gardens  the  birds  are  making 
sweet  music  in  the  tall  elms ;  you  may  almost  hear  the 
thick  grass  growing,  and  the  buds  on  tree  and  shrub  are 
changing  from  brown,  red,  or  purple,  to  emerald  green  under 
your  eyes ;  the  glorious  old  city  is  putting  on  her  best  looks 
and  bursting  out  into  laughter  and  song.  In  a  few  weeks  the 
races  begin,  and  Cowley  Marsh  will  be  alive  with  white  tents 
and  joyous  cricketers.  A  quick  ear,  on  the  towing-path  by  the 
Gut,  may  feast  at  one  time  on  those  three  sweet  sounds,  the 
thud  thud  of  the  eight-oar,  the  crack  of  the  rifles  at  the  weirs, 
and  the  click  of  the  bat  on  the  Magdalen  ground.  And  then 
Commemoration  rises  in  the  background  with  its  clouds  of  fair 
visitors,  and  visions  of  excursions  to  Woodstock  and  Nuneham 
in  the  summer  days ;  of  windows  open  on  to  the  old  quad- 
rangles in  the  long,  still  evenings,  through  which  silver  laughter 
and  strains  of  sweet  music  not  made  by  man,  steal  out  and 
puzzle  the  old  celibate  jackdaws  peering  down  from  the  battle- 
ments with  heads  on  one  side.  To  crown  all,  long  vacation, 
beginning  with  the  run  to  Henley  regatta,  or  up  to  town  to 
see  the  match  with  Cambridge  at  Lord's  and  taste  some  of  the 
sweets  of  the  season,  before  starting  on  some  pleasant  tour  or 
reading  party,  or  dropping  back  into  the  quiet  pleasures  of 
English  country  life !  Surely,  the  lot  of  young  Englishmen 
who  frequent  our  universities  is  cast  in  pleasant  places ;  the 
country  has  a  right  to  expect  something  from  those  for  whom 
she  finds  such  a  life  as  this  in  the  years  when  enjoyment  is 
keenest. 

Tom  was  certainly  alive  to  the  advantages  of  the  situation, 
and  entered  on  his  kingdom  without  any  kind  of  scruple.  He 
was  very  glad  to  find  things  so  pleasant,  and  quite  resolved  to 
make  the  best  he  could  of  them.  Then  he  was  in  a  particularly 


100  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXWRD. 

g)od-humor  with  himself;  for,  in  deference  to  the  advice  of 
ardy,  he  had  actually  fixed  on  the  books  which  he  should 
send  in  for  his  little-go  examination  before  going  down  for  the 
Easter  vacation,  and  had  read  them  through  at  home,  devoting 
an  hour  or  two  almost  daily  to  this  laudable  occupation.  So 
he  felt  himself  entitled  to  take  things  easily  on  his  return.  He 
had  brought  back  with  him  two  large  hampers  of  good  sound 
wine,  a  gift  from  his  father  who  had  a  horror  of  letting  his  son 
set  before  his  friends  the  fire-water  which  is  generally  sold  to 
the  undergraduate.  Tom  found  that  his  father's  notions  of  the 
rate  of  consumption  prevalent  in  the  university  were  wild  in 
the  extreme.  "In  his  time,"  the  squire  said,"  eleven  men  came 
to  his  first  wine  party,  and  he  had  opened  nineteen  bottles  of 
port  for  them.  He  was  very  glad  to  hear  that  the  habits  of  the 
place  had  changed  so  much  for  the  better  ;  and  as  Tom  wouldn't 
want  nearly  so  much  wine,  he  should  have  it  out  of  an  older 
bin."  Accordingly,  the  port  which  Tom  employed  the  first 
hour  after  his  return  in  stacking  carefully  away  in  his  cellar 
had  been  more  than  twelve  years  in  bottle,  and  he  thought 
with  unmixed  satisfaction  of  the  plonsino-  effect  it  would  have 
on  Jervis  and  Miller,  and  the  one  or  two  other  men  who  knew 
good  wine  from  bad,  and  guided  public  opinion  on  the  subject 
and  of  the  social  importance  which  he  would  soon  attain  to 
from  the  reputation  of  giving  good  wine. 

The  idea  of  entertaining,  of  being  hospitable,  is  a  pleasant 
and  fascinating  one  to  most  young  men  ;  but  the  act  soon  gets 
to  be  a  bore  to  all  but  a  few  curiously  constituted  individuals. 
With  these  hospitality  becomes  first  a  passion  and  then  a  faith 
a  faith  the  practice  of  which,  in  the  cases  of  some  of  its  pro- 
fessors, reminds  one  strongly  of  the  hints  on  such  subjects  scat- 
tered about  the  New  Testament.  Most  of  us,  I  fear,  feel,  when 
our  friends  leave  ns,  a  certain  sort  of  satisfaction,  not  unlike 
that  of  paying  a  bill ;  they  have  been  done  for,  and  can't  ex- 
pect anything  more  for  a  long  time.  Such  thoughts  never  oc- 
cur to  your  really  hospitable  man.  Lon<*  years  of  narrow 
means  cannot  hinder  him  from  keeping  open  house  for  who- 
ever wants  to  come  to  him,  and  setting  the  best  of  everything 
before  all  comers.  He  has  no  notion  of  giving  you  anything 
but  the  best  he  can  command,  if  it  be  only  fresh  porter  from 
the  nearest  mews.  He  asks  himself  not,  "  Ought  I  to  invite  A 
or  B  ?  do  I  owe  him  anything?"  but  "  Would  A  or  B  like  to 
come  here  ?"  Give  me  these  men's  houses  for  real  enjoyment 
though  you  never  get  anything  very  choice  there, — (how  can 
a  man  produce  old  wine  who  gives  his  oldest  every  day?) — 
seldom  much  elbow  room  or  orderly  arrangement.  The  high 


SUMMER  TERM.  101 

arts  of  gastronomy  and  scientific  drinking,  so  much  valued  in 
our  highly  civilized  community,  are  wholly  unheeded  by  him, 
are  altogether  above  him,  are  cultivated  in  fact  by  quite  an- 
other set,  who  have  very  little  of  the  genuine  spirit  of  hospitali- 
ty in  them;  from  whose  tables,  should  one  by  chance  happen 
upon  them,  one  rises  certainly  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  and 
expansion,  chiefly  physical,  so  far  ns  I  can  judge,  but  entirely 
without  that  expansion  of  heart  which  one  gets  at  the  scramble 
of  the  hospitable  man.  So  that  we  are  driven  to  remark,  even 
in  such  every-day  matters  as  these,  that  it  is  the  invisible,  the 
spiritual,  which,  after  all,  gives  value  and  reality  even  to  din- 
ners; and,  with  Solomon,  to  prefer  to  the  most  touching  diner 
Itusse,  the  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is  ,  though  I  trust  that 
neither  we  nor  Solomon  should  object  to  well-dressed  cutlets 
with  our  salad,  if  they  happen  to  be  going. 

Readers  will  scarcely  need  to  be  told  that  one  of  the  first 
things  Tom  did,  after  depositing  his  luggage  and  unpacking 
his  wine,  was  to  call  at  Hardy's  rooms,  where  he  found  his 
friend  deep  as  usual  in  his  books,  the  hard-worked  atlases  and 
dictionaries  of  all  sorts  taking  up  more  space  than  ever. 
After  the  first  hearty  greetings,  Tom  occupied  his  old  place 
with  much  satisfaction. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  up,  old  fellow  ?  "  he  began  :  "  you 
look  quite  settled." 

"  I  only  went  home  for  a  week.  Well,  what  have  you  been 
doing  in  the  vacation  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  there  was  nothing  much  going  on;  so  amongst  other 
things,  I've  floored  my  little-go  work." 

"Bravo!  you'll  find  the  comfort  of  it  now.  I  hardly  thought 
you  would  take  to  the  grind  so  easily." 

"  It's  pleasant  enough  for  a  spurt,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  I  shall 
never  manage  a  horrid  perpetual  grind  like  yours.  But  what 
in  the  world  have  you  been  doing  to  your  walls  ?  " 

Tom  might  well  ask,  for  the  corners  of  Hardy's  room  were 
covered  with  sheets  of  paper  of  different  sizes,  pasted  against 
the  walls  in  groups.  In  the  line  of  sight  from  about  the 
height  of  four  to  six  feet,  there  was  scarcely  an  inch  of  the 
original  paper  visible,  and  round  each  centre  group  there  were 
outlying  patches  and  streamers,  stretching  towards  floor  or 
ceiling,  or  away  nearly  to  the  book-cases  or  lire-place. 

"Well,  don't  you  think  it  a  great  improvement  on  the  old 
paper?"  said  Hardy,  "I  shall  be  out  of  rooms  next  term,  and 
it  will  be  a  hint  to  the  college  that  the  rooms  want  papering. 
You're  no  judge  of  such  matters,  or  I  should  ask  you  whether 
you  don't  see  great  artistic  taste  in  the  arrangement." 


102  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Why,  they're  nothing  but  maps,  and  lists  of  names  and 
dates,"  said  Tom,  who  had  got  up  to  examine  the  decorations. 
"And  what  in  the  world  are  all  these  queer  pins  for  ?  "  he  went 
on,  pulling  a  strong  pin  with  a  large  red  sealing-wax  head  out 
of  the  map  nearest  to  him. 

*'  Hallo  !  take  care  there ;  what  are  you  about  ?  "  shouted 
Hardy,  getting  up  and  hastening  to  the  corner.  "  Why,  you 
irreverent  beggar,  those  pins  are  the  famous  statesmen  and 
warriors  of  Greece  and  Rome." 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  didn't  know  I  was  in  such 
august  company ;  "  saying  which,  Tom  proceeded  to  stick  the 
red-headed  pin  back  into  the  wall. 

"Now,  just  look  at  that,"  said  Hardy,  taking  the  pin  out  of 
the  place  where  Tom  had  stuck  it.  "Pretty  doings  there 
would  be  amongst  them  with  your  management.  This  pin  is 
Brasidas ;  you've  taken  him  away  from  Naupactus,  where  he 
was  watching  the  eleven  Athenian  galleys  anchored  under  the 
temple  of  Apollo,  and  struck  him  downright  in  the  middle  of 
the  Pnyx,  where  he  will  be  instantly  torn  in  pieces  by  a  ruth- 
less and  reckless  Jacobin  mob.  You  call  yourself  a  Tory  in- 
deed !  However,  'twas  always  the  same  with  you  Tories ; 
calculating,  cruel,  and  jealous.  Use  your  leaders  up,  and  throw 
them  over — that's  the  golden  rule  of  aristocracies." 

"  Hang  Brasidas,"  said  Tom,  laughing ;  "  stick  him  back  at 
Naupaetus  again.  Here,  which  is  Cleon?  The  scoundrel! 
give  me  hold  of  him,  and  I'll  put  him  in  a  hot  berth." 

"  That's  he  with  a  yellow  head.  Let  him  alone,  I  tell  you, 
or  all  will  be  hopeless  confusion  when  Grey  comes  for  his  lect- 
ure. We're  only  in  the  third  year  of  the  war." 

"  I  like  your  chaff  about  Tories  sacrificing  their  great  men," 
said  Tom,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets  to  avoid  tempta- 
tion. "How  about  your  precious  democracy,  old  fellow? 
Which  is  Socrates?" 

"Here,  the  dear  old  boy! — this  pin  with  the  great  gray 
head,  in  the  middle  of  Athens,  you  see.  I  pride  myself  on  my 
Athens.  Here's  the  Piraus  and  the  long  walls,  and  the  hill  of 
Mars.  Isn't  it  as  good  as  a  picture  ? ' 

"  Well,  it  is  better  than  most  maps,  I  think,"  said  Tom. 
"But  you're  not  going  to  slip  out  so  easily.  I  want  to  know 
whether  your  pet  democracy  did  or  did  not  murder  Socrates.' 

"  I'm  not  bound  to  defend  democracies.  But  look  at  my 
pins.  It  may  be  the  natural  fondness  of  a  parent,  but  I  de- 
clare they  seem  to  me  to  have  a  great  deal  of  character,  con- 
sidering the  material.  You'll  guess  them  as  once,  I'm  sure,  if 
you  mark  the  color  and  shape  of  the  wax.  This  one,  now,  for 
instance,  who  is  he  ?  " 


SUMMER  TERM.  10b 

"  Alcibiades,"  answered  Tom,  doubtfully. 

"  Alcibiades  1 "  shouted  Hardy ;  "  you  fresh  from  Rugby, 
and  not  know  your  Thucydides  better  than  that?  There's 
Alcibiades,  that  little  purple-headed,  foppish  pin,  by  Socrates. 
This  rusty-colored  one  is  that  respectable  old  stick-in-the-mud, 
Nicias." 

"  Well,  but  you've  made  Alcibiades  nearly  the  smallest  of 
the  whole  lot,"  said  Tom. 

"  So  he  was,  to  my  mind,"  said  Hardy;  "just  the  sort  of 
insolent  young  ruffian  whom  I  should  have  liked  to  buy  at  my 
price,  and  sell  at  his  own.  He  must  have  been  very  like  some 
of  our  gentlemen-commoners,  with  the  addition  of  brains." 

"  I  should  really  think,  though,"  said  Tom,  "  it  must  be  a 
capital  plan  for  making  you  remember  the  history." 

"  It  is,  I  flatter  myself.  I've  long  had  the  idea,  but  I  should 
never  have  worked  it  out  and  found  the  value  of  it  but  for 
Grey.  I  invented  it  to  coach  him  in  his  history.  You  see  we 
are  in  the  Grecian  corner ;  over  there  is  the  Roman ;  you'll 
find  Livy  and  Tacitus  worked  out  there,  just  as  Herodotus  and 
Thucydides  are  here ;  and  the  pins  are  stuck  for  the  Second 
Punic  War,  where  we  are  just  now.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
Grey  got  his  first,  after  all,  he's  picking  up  so  quick  in  my 
corners ;  and  says  he  never  forgets  ny  set  of  events  when  he 
has  pricked  them  out  with  the  pins.' 

"  Is  he  working  at  that  school  still  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Yes,  as  hard  as  ever.  He  didn't  go  down  for  the  vacation, 
and  I  really  believe  it  was  because  the  curate  told  him  the 
school  would  go  wrong  if  he  went  away." 

"It's  very  plucky  of  him,  but  I  do  think  he's  a  great  fool 
not  to  knock  it  off  now,  till  he  has  passed,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hardy ;  "  he  is  getting  more  good  there  than  he 
can  ever  get  in  the  schools,  though  I  hope  he'll  do  well  in. 
them,  too." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,  for  he  deserves  it.  And  now,  Hardy,  to 
change  the  subject,  I'm  going  to  give  my  first  wine  next 
Thursday  ;  and  here's  the  first  card  which  has  gone  out  for  it. 
You'll  promise  me  to  come,  now,  wont  you  ?  " 

"What  a  hurry  you're  in,"  said  Hardy,  taking  the  card, 
which  he  put  on  his  mantelpiece,  after  examining  it. 

"  But  you'll  promise  to  come,  now  ?" 

"  I'm  very  hard  at  work, — I  ca&'t  be  sure." 

"  You  needn't  stay  above  half  an  hour.  I've  brought  back 
some  famous  wine  from  the  governor's  cellar ;  and  I  want  so 
to  get  you  and  Jervis  together.  He  is  sure  to  come." 

«*  Why,  that's  the  bell  for  chapel  beginning  already,"  said 


104  TOM  SBO  VSM  AT  OXFORD. 

Hardy;  "I  had  no  notion  it  was  so  late.  I  must  be  off,  to 
put  the  new  servitor  up  to  his  work.  Will  you  come  in  after 
Hall?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  come  to  me  next  Thursday." 

"We'll  talk  about  it.  But  mind  you  come  to-night,  for 
you'll  find  me  working  Grey  in  the  Punic  Wnrs,  and  you'll  see 
how  the  pins  act.  I'm  very  proud  of  my  show." 

And  so  Hardy  went  off  to  chapel,  and  Tom  to  Drysdale's 
rooms,  not  at  all  satisfied  that  he  had  made  Hardy  safe.  He 
found  Drysdale  lolling  on  his  sofa,  as  usual,  and  fondling  Jack. 
He  had  just  arrived,  and  his  servant  and  the  scout  were  un- 
packing his  portmanteaus.  He  seemed  pleased  to  see  Tom, 
but  looked  languid  and  used  up. 

"Where  have  you  been  this  vacation ?"  said  Tom.  "You 
look  seedy." 

"  You  may  say  that,"  said  Drysdale.  "Here,  William,  get 
out  a  bottle  of  Schiedam.  Have  a  taste  of  bitters?  there's 
nothing  like  it  to  set  one's  digestion  right." 

"  No,  thankee,"  said  Tom,  rejecting  the  glass  which  William 
proffered  him  ;  "  my  appetite  don't  want  improving." 

"  You're  lucky,  then,"  said  Drysdale.  "Ah,  that's  the  right 
stuff  !  I  feel  better  already." 

"  But  where  have  you  been?" 

"  Oh,  in  the  little  village.  It's  no  use  being  in  the  country 
at  this  time  of  year.  I  just  went  up  to  Limmer's  and  there  I 
stuck,  with  two  or  three  more,  till  to-day." 

"  I  can't  stand  London  for  more  than  a  week,"  said  Tom. 
"What  did  you  do  all  day?" 

"We  hadn't  much  to  say  to  daylight,"  said  Drysdale  "What 
with  theatres,  and  sparring  cribs,  and  the  Coal-hole,  and  cider- 
cellars,  and  a  little  play  in  St.  James'  Street  now  and  then,  one 
wasn't  up  to  early  rising.  However,  I  was  better  than  the  rest, 
for  I  had  generally  breakfasted  by  two  o'clock." 

"No  wonder  you  look  seedy.  You'd  much  better  have  been 
in  the  country." 

"  I  should  have  been  more  in  pocket,  at  any  rate,"  said  Drys- 
dale. "By  Jove,  how  it  runs  away  with  the  ready!  I'm 
fairly  cleaned  out ;  and  if  I  haven't  luck  at  van  John,  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  know  how  I'm  to  get  through  term.  But,  look 
here,  here's  a  bundle  of  the  newest  songs — first-rate,  some  of 
them."  And  he  threw  some  papers  across  to  Tom,  who 
glanced  at  them  without  being  at  all  edified. 

"You're  going  to  pull  regularly,  I  hope,  this  term,  Drys- 
dale?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so ;  it's  a  cheap  amusement,  and  I  want  a 
little  training,  for  a  chanrrc.". 


SUMMER  TERM.  lu.j 

"That's  »H  right." 

"I've  brought  down  some  dresses  for  our  gypsy  business, 
by  the  way.  1  didn't  forget  that.  Is  Blake  back?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom ;  "but  we  sha'n'thave  time  before 
the  races." 

"Well,  afterwards  will  do;  though  the  days  oughtn't  to 
be  too  long.  I'm  all  for  a  little  darkness  in  masquerading." 

"  There's  five  o'clock  striking.  Are  you  going  to  dine  in 
Hall?" 

"  No ;  I  shall  go  to  the  Mitre,  and  get  a  broil." 

"  Then  I'm  off.  Let's  see, — will  you  come  and  wine  with 
me  next  Thursday?" 

"  Yes;  only  send  us  a  card,  '  to  remind.'  " 

"  All  right ! "  said  Tom,  and  went  off  to  Hall,  feeling  dis- 
satisfied and  uncomfortable  about  his  fast  friend,  for  whom  he 
had  a  sincere  regard. 

After  Hall,  Tom  made  a  short  round  amongst  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  then,  giving  himself  up  to  the  strongest  attraction, 
returned  to  Hardy's  rooms,  comforting  himself  with  the  thought 
that  it  really  must  be  an  act  of  Christian  charity  to  take  such 
a  terrible  reader  off  his  books  for  once  in  a  way,  when  his  con- 
science pricked  him  for  intruding  on  Hardy  during  his  hours  of 
work.  He  found  Grey  there,  who  was  getting  up  his  Roman 
history,  under  Hardy's  guidance  ;  and  the  two  were  working 
the  pins  on  the  maps  and  lists  in  the  Roman  corner  when  Tom 
arrived.  He  begged  them  not  to  stop,  and  very  soon  was  as 
much  interested  in  what  they  were  doing  as  if  he  also  were 
going  into  the  schools  in  May ;  for  Hardy  had  a  way  of  throw- 
ing life  into  what  he  was  talking  about,  and,  like  many  men 
with  strong  opinions  and  passionate  natures,  either  carried  his 
hearers  off  their  legs  and  away  with  him  altogether,  or  roused 
every  spark  of  combativeness  in  them.  The  latter  was  the  ef- 
fect which  his  lecture  on  the  Punic  Wars  had  on  Tom.  He 
made  several  protests  as  Hardy  went  on  ;  but  Grey's  anxious 
looks  kept  him  from  going  fairly  into  action,  till  Hardy  struck 
the  black  pin,  which  represented  Scipio,  triumphantly  in  the 
middle  of  Carthage,  and,  turning  mund,  said,  "  And  now  for 
some  tea,  Grey,  before  you  have  tc  *.ura  out." 

Tom  opened  fire  while  the  tea  was  brewing. 

"  You  couldn't  say  anything  bad  enough  about  aristocracies 
this  morning,  Hardy,  and  now  to-nig^t  you  are  crowing  over 
the  success  of  the  heaviest  and  crudest  oligarchy  that  ever 
lived,  and  praising  them  up  to  the  skie?  " 

"  Hullo  !  here's  a  breeze  ! "  said  H?r^y,  smiling  ;  "  but  I 
rejoice,  O  Brown !  in  that  they  thrashed  the  Carthaginians,  and 


106  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

not,  as  you  seem  to  think,  in  that  they,  being  aristocrats, 
thrashed  the  Carthaginians  ;  for  oligarchs  they  were  not  at  this 
time." 

"  At  any  rate,  they  answer  to  the  Spartans  in  the  struggle, 
and  the  Carthaginians  to  the  Athenians  ;  and  yet  all  your 
sympathies  are  with  the  Romans  to-night  in  the  Punic  Wars, 
thought  they  were  with  the  Athenians  be  fore  dinner." 

"  I  deny  your  position.  The  Carthaginians  were  nothing  but 
a  great  trading  aristocracy — with  a  glorious  family  or  two,  I 
grant  you,  like  that  of  Hannibal,  but,  on  the  whole,  a  dirty, 
bargain-driving,  buy-cheap-and-sell-dear  aristocracy — of  whom 
the  world  was  well  rid.  They  like  the  Atheniens  indeed  ! 
Why,  just  look  what  the  two  people  have  left  behind  them — " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Tom,  "  but  we  only  know  the  Car- 
thaginians through  the  reports  of  their  destroyers.  Your 
heroes  trampled  them  out  with  hoofs  of  iron." 

"  Do  you  think  the  Roman  hoof  could  have  trampled  out 
their  Homer  if  they  ever  had  one?"  said  Hardy  ;  "  the  Romans 
conquered  Greece,  too,  remember." 

"  But  Grace  was  never  so  near  beating  them." 

"  True.  But  I  hold  to  my  point.  Carthage  was  the  mother 
of  all  hucksters,  compassing  sea  and  land  to  sell  her  wares." 

"  And  no  bad  line  of  life  for  a  nation.  At  least,  English- 
men ought  to  think  so." 

I  "  No,  they  ought  not ;  at  least  if  'Punica  fides'  is  to  be 
the  rule  of  trade.  Selling  any  amount  of  Brummagem  wares 
never  did  nation  or  man  much  good  and  never  will.  Eh,  Grey  ?  " 

Grey  winced  at  being  appealed  to,  but  remarked  that  he 
hoped  the  Church  would  yet  be  able  to  save  England  from  shar- 
ing the  fate  of  Tyre  and  Carthage,  the  great  trading  nations  of 
the  old  world :  and  then,  swallowing  his  tea,  and  looking  as  if 
he  had  been  caught  robbing  a  hen-roost,  he  made  a  sudden  exit, 
and  hurried  away  out  of  college  to  the  night-school. 

"  What  a  pity  he  is  so  odd  and  shy,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  should 
so  like  to  know  more  of  him." 

"  It  is  a  pity.  He  is  much  better  when  he  is  alone  with  me. 
I  think  he  has  heard  from  some  of  the  set  that  you  are  a  furious 
Protestant,  and  sees  an  immense  amount  of  stiff-neckedness  in 
you." 

"  But  about  England  and  Carthage,"  said  Tom,  shirking  the 
subject  of  his  own  peculiarities ;  "  you  don't  really  think  us  like 
them  ?  It  gave  me  a  turn  to  hear  you  translating  '  Punica 
fides '  into  Brummagem  wares  just  now." 

"  I  think  that  successful  trade  is  our  rock  ahead.  The  devil 
who  holds  new  markets  and  twenty  per  cent,  profits  in  his  gift 


SUMMER  TEEM.  107 

la  the  devil  that  England  has  most  to  fear  from.  'Because  of 
unrighteous  dealings,  and  riches  gotten  by  deceit,  the  kingdom 
is  translated  from  one  people  to  another,'  said  the  wise  mail. 
Think  of  that  opium  war  the  other  day :  I  don't  believe  we  can 
get  over  many  more  such  businesses  as  that.  Grey  falls  back 
on  the  Church,  you  see,  to  save  the  nation  ;  but  the  Church  he 
dreams  of  will  never  do  it.  Is  there  any  that  can  ?  There 
must  be,  surely,  or  we  have  believed  a  lie.  But  this  work  of 
making  trade  righteous,  of  Christianizing  trade,  looks  like  the 
very  hardest  the  Gospel  has  ever  had  to  take  in  hand — in  Eng- 
land, at  any  rate." 

Hardy  spoke  slowly  and  doubtfully,  and  paused  as  if  asking 
for  Tom's  opinion. 

"  I  never  heard  it  put  in  that  way.  I  know  very  little  of 
politics  or  the  state  of  England.  But  come,  now ;  the  putting 
down  the  slave  trade  and  compensating  our  planters,  that  shows 
that  we  are  not  sold  to  the  trade  devil  yet,  surely." 

"  I  don't  think  we  are.  No,  thank  God,  there  are  plenty  of 
signs  that  we  are  likely  to  make  a  good  light  of  it  yet." 

They  talked  together  for  another  hour,  drawing  their  chairs 
round  to  the  fire,  and  looking  dreamily  into  the  embers  as  is 
the  wont  of  men  who  are  throwing  out  suggestions,  and  help- 
ing one  another  to  think,  rather  than  arguing.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  Tom  left  Hardy  to  his  books,  and  went  away  laden 
with  several  new  ideas,  one  of  the  clearest  of  which  was  that 
he  was  awfully  ignorant  of  the  contemporary  history  of  his  own 
country,  and  that  it  was  the  thing  of  all  others  which  he  ought 
to  be  best  informed  in,  and  thinking  most  about.  So,  being  of 
an  impetuous  turn  of  mind,  he  went  straight  to  his  rooms  to 
commence  his  new  study,  where,  after  diligent  hunting,  the 
only  food  of  the  kind  he  required  which  turned  up  was  the  last 
number  of  BeWs  Life  from  the  pocket  of  his  greatcoat.  Upon 
this  he  fell  to  work,  in  default  of  anything  better,  and  was  soon 
deep  in  the  P.  R.  column,  which  was  full  of  interesting  spec- 
ulations as  to  the  chances  of  Bungaree  in  his  forthcoming  cam- 
paign against  the  British  middle-weights.  By  the  time  he  had 
skimmed  through  the  well-known  sheets,  he  was  satisfied  that 
the  columns  of  his  old  -acquaintance  were  not  the  place,  except 
in  the  police  reports  where  much  could  be  learnt  about  the  pres- 
ent state  or  future  prospects  of  England.  Then,  the  first  even- 
ing of  term  being  a  restless  time,  he  wandered  out  again,  and 
before  long  landed,  as  his  custom  was,  at  Drysdale's  door. 

On  entering  the  room  he  fouud  Drysdale  and  Blake  alone  *•- 
gether,  the  former  looking  more  serious  than  Tom  had  ever  seek 
him  before.  As  for  Blake,  the  restless,  haggard  expression  sat 


108  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

more  heavily  than  ever  on  his  face,  marring  its  beauty,  and  almost 
making  it  impossible  to  look  on  without  a  shudder.  It  was  clear 
that  they  changed  the  subject  of  their  talk  abruptly  on  his  en- 
trance ;  so  Tom  looked  anywhere  except  straight  before  him  as 
he  was  greeting  Blake.  He  really  felt  sorry  for  him  at  the  mo- 
ment. However,  in  another  five  minutes,  he  was  in  fits  of 
laughter  over  Blake's  description  of  the  conversation  between 
himself  and  the  coachman  who  had  driven  the  Glo'ster  day-mail 
by  which  he  had  come  up:  in  which  convesation  nevertheless, 
when  Tom  came  to  think  it  over  and  try  to'repeat  it  afterwards, 
the  most  facetious  parts  seemed  to  be  the  "sez  he's  "  and  "sez 
I's  "  with  which  Jehu  larded  his  stories ;  so  he  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt, wondering  what  he  could  have  found  in  it  to  laugh  at. 

"  By  the  way,  Blake,"  said  Drysdale,  "  how  about  our  ex- 
cursion into  Berkshire  masquerading  this  term?  Are  you 
game?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Blake ;  "  I  really  must  make  the  most 
of  such  time  as  I  have  left,  if  I'm  to  go  into  the  schools  this 
term." 

"  If  there's  one  thing  which  spoils  Oxford,  it  is  those  schools," 
said  Drysdale  ;  "  they  get  in  the  way  of  everything.  I  ought 
to  be  going  up  for  smalls  myself  next  term,  and  I  haven't  opened 
a  book  yet,  and  don't  mean.  Follow  a  good  example,  old  fel- 
low, your  cock-sure  of  your  first,  everybody  knows." 

"  I  wish  everybody  would  back  his  opinion  and  give  me  a 
shade  of  odds.  Why,  I  have  scarcely  thought  of  my  history." 

"  Why  the  D — 1  should  they  make  such  a  fuss  about  history  ? 
One  knows  perfectly  well  that  those  old  blackguard  heathens 
were  no  better  than  they  should  be ;  and  what  good  it  can  do  to 
lumber  one's  head  with  who  their  grandmothers  were,  and  what 
they  ate,  and  when  and  where  and  why  they  had  their  stupid 
brains  knocked  out,  I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  me." 

"  Excellently  well  put.  Where  did  you  pick  up  such  sound 
views,  Drysdale  ?  But  you  are  not  examiner  yet,  and  on  the 
whole  I  must  rub  up  my  history  somehow.  I  wish  I  knew  how 
to  do  it." 

"  Can't  you  put  on  a  coach  ?  "  said  Drysdale. 

"I  have  one  on,  but  history  is  his  weak  point,"  said  Blake. 

"I  think  I  can  help  you,"  said  Tom.  "  I've  just  been  hear- 
ing a  lecture  in  Roman  history,  and  one  that  won't  be  so  easy 
to  forget  as  most ;  "  and  he  went  on  to  explain  Hardy's  plans 
to  which  Blako  listened  eagerly. 

"  Capital !  "  he  said,  when  Tom  had  finished.  "  In  whose 
rooms  did  you  sny  they  are?" 

"  In  Hardy's,  and  he  works  at  them  every  night  with  Grey.' 


SUMMER  TER1L  lOv 

"That's  the  queer  big  servitor,  his  particular  pal,"  put  in 
Prysdale;  "  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes." 

"  You  don't  know  him,"  retorted  Tom ;  "  and  the  less  you  say 
about  him  the  better." 

"  I  know  lie  wears  highlows  and  short  flannels,  and — " 

"  Would  you  mind  asking  Hardy  to  let  me  come  to  his  lec- 
tures? "  interrupted  Blake,  averting  the  strong  language  which 
was  rising  to  Tom's  lips.  "  I  think  they  seem  just  the  things 
J  want.  I  shouldn't  like  to  offer  to  pay  him,  unless  you  think — " 

"I'm  quite  sure,"  interrupted  Tom,  "that  he  wont  take  any- 
jlung.  1  will  ask  him  to-morrow  whether  he  will  let  you  come, 
and  he's  such  a  kind,  good  fellow  that  I'm  almost  sure  he  will." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  your  pal,  too,  Brown,"  said  Drys- 
dale;  "you  must  introduce  me,  with  Blake." 

"No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  said  Tom. 

"Then  I  shall  introduce  myself,"  said  Drysdale;  "see  if  I 
don't  sit  next  him  now  at  your  wine  on  Thursday." 

Here  Drysdale's  scout  entered,  with  two  notes,  and  wished 
to  know  if  AJr.  Drysdale  would  require  anything  more.  Nothing 
but  hot  water ;  he  could  put  the  kettle  on,  Drysdale  said,  and 
go;  and  while  the  scout  was  fulfilling  his  orders,  he  got  up  care- 
lessly, whistling,  and,  walking  t^  the  fire,  read  the  notes  by  the 
light  of  one  of  the  candles  which  was  burning  on  the  mantel- 
piece. Blake  was  watching  him  eagerly,  and  Tom  saw  this, 
and  made  some  awkward  efforts  to  go  on  talking  about  the 
advantages  of  Hardy's  plan  for  learning  history  ;  but  he  was 
talking  to  deaf  ears,  and  soon  came  to  a  standstill.  He  saw 
Drysdale  crumple  up  the  notes  in  his  hand  and  shove  them  into 
his  pocket.  After  standing  for  a  few  seconds  in  the  same  posi- 
tion, with  his  back  to  them,  he  turned  round  with  a  careless  air, 
and  sauntered  to  the  table  where  they  were  sitting. 

" Let's  see,  what  were  we  saying ?"  he  began.  "Oh,  about 
your  eccentric  pal,  Brown." 

"You've  answers  from  both?  "  interrupted  Blake.  Drysdale 
nodded,  and  was  beginning  to  speak  again  to  Tom,  when  Blake 
got  up  and  said,  with  white  lips,  "  I  must  see  them." 

"No,  never  mind,  what  does  it  matter?  " 

"  Matter !  by  Heaven,  I  must  and  will  see  them  now." 

Tom  saw  at  once  that  he  had  better  go,  and  so  took  up  his 
cap,  wished  them  good-night,  and  went  off  to  his  own  rooms. 

He  might  have  been  sifting  there  for  about  twenty  minutes, 
when  Drysdale  entered. 

"  I  couldn't  help  coming  over,  Lrown,"  he  said  ;  •'•'  I  must  talk 
to  some  one,  and  Blake  has  gone  off  raging.  I  don't  know  what 
he'll  do — I  never  was  so  bothered  or  savage  in  my  life  " 


HO  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Tom  ;  "  he  looked  very  bad  in  your 
rooms.  Can  I  do  anything?" 

"No,  but  I  must  talk  to  some  one.  You  know — no  you 
don't,  by  the  way — but,  however,  Blake  got  me  out  of  a  tre- 
mendous scrape  in  my  first  term,  and  there's  nothing  that  I'm 
not  bound  to  do  for  him,  and  wouldn't  do  if  I  could.  Yes,  by 
George,  whatever  fellows  say  of  me,  they  shall  never  say  I 
didn't  stand  by  a  man  who  has  stood  by  me.  Well,  he  owes  & 
dirty  £300  or  £400,  or  something  of  the  sort — nothing  worth 
talking  of  I  know — to  people  in  Oxford,  and  they've  been 
leading  him  a  dog's  life  this  year  and  more.  Now,  he's  just 
going  up  for  his  degree,  and  two  or  three  of  these  creditors — 
the  most  rascally,  of  course — are  sueing  him  in  the  Vice-Chan- 
cellor's Court,  thinking  now's  the  time  to  put  the  screw  on.  He 
will  be  ruined  if  they  are  not  stopped  somehow.  Just  after  I 
saw  you  to-day,  he  came  to  me  about  it.  You  never  saw  a 
fellow  in  such  a  state ;  I  could  see  it  was  tearing  him  to  pieces, 
telling  it  to  me  even.  However,  I  soon  set  him  at  ease  as  far 
as  I  was  concerned ;  but,  as  the  Devil  will  have  it,  I  can't  lend 
him  the  money,  though  £60  would  get  him  over  the  examina- 
tion, and  then  he  can  make  terms.  My  guardian  advanced  me 
£200  beyond  my  allowance  just  before  Easter,  and  I  haven't 
£20  left,  and  the  bank  here  has  given  me  notice  not  to  overdraw 
any  more.  However,  I  thought  to  settle  it  easily  enough  ;  so 
I  told  him  to  meet  me  at  the  Mitre  in  half  an  hour  for  dinner, 
and  when  he  was  gone  I  sat  down  and  wrote  two  notes — the 
first  to  St.  Cloud.  That  fellow  was  with  us  on  and  off  in  town, 
and  one  night  he  and  I  went  partners  at  roulette,  I  finding  ready 
money  for  the  time,  gains  and  losses  to  be  equally  shared  in  the 
end.  I  left  the  table  to  go  and  eat  some  supper,  and  he  lost 
£80,  and  paid  it  out  of  my  money.  I  didn't  much  care,  and  he 
cursed  the  luck,  and  acknowledged  that  he  owed  me  £40  at  the 
time.  Well,  I  just  reminded  him  of  this  £40  and  said  I  should 
oe  glad  of  it  (I  know  he  has  plenty  of  money  just  now),  but 
ndded,  that  he  might  stand  if  he  would  join  me  and  Blake  in 
borrowing  £60 ;  I  was  fool  enough  to  add  that  Blake  was  in 
difficulties,  and  I  was  most  anxious  to  help  him.  As  I  thought 
that  St.  Cloud  would  probably  pay  the  £40  but  do  no  more,  I 
wrote  also  to  Chanter — Heaven  knows  why,  except  that  the 
beast  rolls  in  money,  and  has  fawned  on  me  till  I've  been  nearly 
sick  this  year  past — and  asked  him  to  lend  Blake  £50  on  our 
joint  note  of  hand.  Poor  Blake  !  when  I  told  him  what  I  had 
done  at  the  Mitre,  I  think  I  might  as  well  have  stuck  the  car- 
ving knife  into  him.  We  had  a  wretched  two  hours  ;  then  yon 
came  in,  and  I  got  my  two  answers — here  they  are." 

Tom  took  the  proffered  notes,  ao-7  >ead: — 


SUMMER  TERM.  HI 

"  DEAB  DRYSDALE, — Please  explain  the  allusion  in  yours  to  some 
mysterious  £40.  I  remember  perfectly  the  occurrence  to  which  you  refer 
In  another  part  of  your  note.  You  were  tired  of  sitting  at  the  table,  and 
•went  off  to  supper,  leaving  me  (not  by  my  own  desire)  to  play  for  you 
with  your  money.  I  did  so,  and  had  abominable  luck,  as  you  will  re- 
member, for  I  handed  you  back  a  sadly  dwindled  heap  on  your  return  to 
the  table.  I  hope  you  are  in  no  row  about  that  night  ?  I  shall  be  quite 
ready  to  give  evidence  of  what  passed  if  it  will  help  you  in  any  way,  I  am 
always  yours  very  truly. 

"  A.  ST.  CLOUD. 

"  P.  S.  I  must  decline  the  little  joint  operation  for  Blake's  benefit, 
which  you  propose." 

The  second  answer  ran : — 

"  DEAR  DRYSDALE, — I  *m  very  sorry  that  I  cannot  accommodate  Mr. 
Blake,  as  a  friend  of  yours,  but  you  see  his  acceptance  is  mere  waste  paper, 
and  you  cannot  give  security  until  you  are  of  age,  so  if  you  were  to  die  the 
money  would  be  lost.  Mr.  Blake  has  always  carried  his  head  as  high  as 
if  he  had  £5,000  a  year  to  spend  ;  perhaps  now  he  will  turn  less  haughty 
to  men  who  could  buy  him  up  easy  enough.  I  remain  yours  sincerely. 

"  JABEZ  CHANTER. 

Tom  looked  up,  and  met  Drysdale's  eyes,  which  had  more  of 
purpose  in  them  than  he  had  ever  seen  before.  "  Fancy  poor 
Blake  reading  those  two  notes,"  he  said,  "  and  'twas  I  brought 
them  on  him.  However,  he  shall  have  the  money  somehow  to- 
morrow, if  I  pawn  my  watch.  I'll  be  even  with  those  two  some 
day."  The  two  remained  in  conference  for  some  time  longer ; 
it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  do  more  than  relate  the  result. 

At  three  o'clock  the  next  day,  Blake,  Drysdale,  and  Tom 
were  in  the  back-parlor  of  a  second-rate  inn,  in  the  corn-market ; 
on  the  table  were  pens  and  ink,  some  cases  of  ean-de-Cologne 
and  jewellery,  and  behind  it  a  fat  man  of  forbidding  aspect, 
who  spent  a  day  or  two  in  each  term  at  Oxford.  He  held  in 
his  thick  red,  damp  hand,  ornamented  as  to  the  fore-finger  with 
a  huge  ring,  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Then  I  shall  draw  for  a  hundred-and-five?" 

"  If  you  do,  we  won't  sign,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  now,  be  quick, 
Ben  "  (the  fat  man's  name  was  Benjamin),  "you  infernal  shark^ 
we've  been  wrangling  long  enough  over  it.  Draw  for  £100  at 
three  months  or  we  are  off." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Drysdale,  you  gents  will  take  part  in  goods.  I 
wish  to  do  all  I  can  for  gents  as  comes  well  introduced,  but 
money  is  very  scarce  just  now." 

"  Not  a  stuffed  bird,  bottle  of  eau-de-Cologne,  ring,  or  cigar, 
will  we  have;  so  now,  no  more  nonsense,  put  down  .£75  on  the 
table." 


X12  TOM  BEO\VN  AT  OXFORD. 

The  money-lender,  after  another  equally  useless  attempt  to 
move  Drysdale,  who  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  spoke, 
produced  a  roll  of  notes,  and  counted  out  £7 5,  thinking  to  him- 
self that  he  would  make  this  young  spark  sing  a  different  tune 
before  very  long.  lie  then  filled  up  the  piece  of  paper,  mut- 
tering that  the  interest  was  nothing,  considering  the  risk,  and 
he  hoped  they  would  help  him  to  something  better  with  some 
of  their  friends.  Drysdale  reminded  him,  in  terms  not  too 
carefully  chosen,  that  he  was  getting  cent  per  cent.  The  doc- 
ument was  signed, — Drysdale  took  the  notes,  and  they  went 
out. 

"  Well,  that's  well  over,"  said  Drysdale  as  they  walked  to- 
wards High  Street.  "I'm  proud  of  my  tactics,  I  must  say; 
one  does  much  better  for  anybody  than  for  one's  self.  If  I  had 
been  on  my  own  hook  that  fellow  would  have  let  me  in  for 
£20  worth  of  stuffed  birds  and  bad  jewellery.  Let's  see,  what 
do  you  want,  Blake?" 

«  Sixty  will  do,"  said  Blake. 

"  You  had  better  take  £65 ;  there'll  be  some  law  costs  to 
pay."  And  Drysdale  handed  him  the  notes. 

"Now,  Brown,  shall  we  divide  the  balance — a  fiver  apiece?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  "  I  don't  want  it ;  and,  as  you 
two  are  to  hold  me  harmless,  you  must  do  what  you  like  with 
the  money."  So  Drysdale  pocketed  the  £10,  after  which  they 
walked  in  silence  to  the  gates  of  St.  Ambrose.  The  most  reck- 
less youngster  doesn't  begin  this  sort  of  thing  without  re- 
flections which  are  apt  to  keep  him  silent.  At  the  gates,  Blake 
wrung  both  their  hands.  "I  don't  say  much,  but  I  sha'n't 
forget  it."  He  got  out  the  words  with  some  difficulty,  and 
weut  off  to  his  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY. 

WITH  IN"  the  next  week  or  two  several  important  events  had 
happened  to  one  and  another  of  our  St.  Ambrose  friends. 
Tom  had  introduced  Blake  to  Hardy,  after  some  demur  on 
the  part  of  the  latter.  Blake  was  his  senior  by  a  term  ;  might 
have  called  on  him  any  time  these  three  years ;  why  should  he 
want  to  make  his  acquaintance  now?  But  when  Tom  ex- 
plained to  him  that  it  would  be  a  kind  thing  to  let  Blake  come 
and  coach  up  history  with  him,  for  that  unless  he  took  a  high 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  llg 

degree  in  the  coming  examination,  he  would  have  to  leave  the 
college,  and  probably  be  ruined  for  life,  Hardy  at  once 
consented. 

Tom  did  not  venture  to  inquire  for  a  day  or  two  how  the 
two  hit  it  off  together.  When  he  began  cautiously  to  nppronch 
the  subject,  he  was  glad  to  'and  that  Hardy  liked  Blake.  "  He 
is  a  gentleman,  and  very  able,"  he  said.  "It  is  curious  to  see 
how  quickly  he  is  overhauling  Grey,  and  yet  how  Grey  takes 
to  him.  He  has  never  looked  scared  at  him  (as  he  still  does 
at  you,  by  the  way)  since  the  first  night  they  met.  Biake  has 
the  talent  of  setting  people  at  their  ease  without  saying  any- 
thing. I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Grey  thinks  he  has  sound  Church 
notions.  It's  a  dangerous  talent,  and  may  make  a  man  very 
false  if  he  doesn't  take  care."  Tom  asked  if  Blake  would  be 
up  in  his  history  in  time.  Hardy  thought  he  might,  perhaps; 
but  he  had  great  lee-way  to  make  up.  If  capacity  for  taking 
in  cram  would  do  it,  he  would  be  all  right.  He  had  been  well 
crammed  in  his  science,  and  had  put  him  (Hardy)  up  to  many 
dodges  which  might  be  useful  in  the  schools,  and  which  you 
couldn't  get  without  a  private  tutor. 

Then  Tom'0  first  wine  had  gone  off  most  successfully.  Jervis 
and  Miller  had  come  early  and  stayed  late,  and  said  all  that 
was  handsome  of  the  port,  so  that  he  was  already  a  social  hero 
with  the  boating  set.  Drysdale,  of  course,  had  been  there, 
rattling  away  to  everybody  in  his  reckless  fashion,  and  setting 
a  good  example  to  the  two  or  three  fast  men  whom  Tom  knew 
well  enough  to  ask,  and  who  consequently  behaved  pretty  well, 
and  gave  themselves  no  airs,  though,  as  they  went  away  to- 
gether, they  grumbled  slightly  that  Brown  didn't  give  claret. 
The  rest  of  the  men  had  shaken  together  well,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  themselves.  The  only  drawback  to  Tom  had  been  that 
neither  Hardy  nor  Grey  had  appeared.  They  excused  them- 
selves afterwards  on  the  score  of  reading,  but  Tom  felt  ag- 
grieved in  Hardy's  case ;  he  knew  that  it  was  only  an  excuse. 

Then  the  training  had  begun  seriously.  Miller  had  come 
up  specially  for  the  first  fortnight,  to  get  them  well  in  hand, 
as  he  said.  After  they  were  once  fairly  started,  he  would  have 
to  go  down  till  just  before  the  races ;  but  he  thought  l.e  might 
rely  on  the  captain  to  keep  them  up  to  their  work  in  the 
interval. 

So  Miller,  the  coxswain,  took  to  drawing  the  bow  up  to  the 
ear  at  once.  At  the  very  beginning  of  term,  five  or  six  weeks 
before  the  races,  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  was  to  be  seen  every 
other  day  at  Abingdon ;  and  early  dinners,  limitation  of  liquids 
and  tobacco,  and  abstinence  from  late  supper  parties,  pastry 

o 


114  TOM:  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

ice,  and  all  manner  of  trash  likely,  in  Miller's  opinion,  to  injure 
nerve  or  wind,  were  banging  over  the  crew,  and  already,  in 
fact,  to  some  extent,  enforced.  The  captain  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  submitted  to  it  all  himself,  and  worked  away  with 
imperturbable  temper,  merely  hinting  to  Miller,  in  private, 
that  he  was  going  too  fast,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
keep  it  up.  Diogenes  highly  approved ;  he  would  have  be- 
come tbe  willing  slave  of  any  tyranny  which  should  insist  that 
every  adult  male  subject  should  pull  twenty  miles,  and  never 
imbibe  more  than  a  pint  of  liquid  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 
Tom  was  inclined  to  like  it,  as  it  helped  him  to  realize  the 
proud  fact  that  he  was  actually  in  the  boat.  The  rest  of  the 
crew  were  in  all  stages  of  mutiny,  and  were  only  kept  from 
breaking  out  by  their  fondness  for  the  captain,  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  Miller  was  going  in  a  few  days.  As  it  was,  Blake 
was  the  only  one  who  openly  rebelled  ;  once  or  twice  he  stayed 
away.  Miller  swore  and  grumbled,  the  captain  shook  his 
head,  and  the  crew  in  general  rejoiced. 

It  is  to  one  of  these  occasions  to  which  we  must  now  turn. 
If  the  usual  casual  voyager  of  novels  had  beeeu  standing  on 
Sandford  lock  at  about  four,  on  the  afternoon  of  April  — th, 
18 — ,  he  might  have  beheld  the  St.  Ambrose  eight-oar  coming 
with  a  steady  swing  up  the  last  reach.  If  such  voyager  were 
in  the  least  conversant  with  the  glorious  mystery  of  rowing, 
he  would  have  felt  his  heart  warm  at  the  magnificent  sweep 
and  life  of  the  stroke,  and  would,  on  the  whole,  have  been 
pleased  with  the  performance  of  the  crew  generally,  consid- 
ered as  a  college  crew  in  the  early  stages  of  training.  They 
came  "  hard  all "  up  to  the  pool  below  the  lock,  the  coxswain 
standing  in  the  stern,  with  a  tiller-rope  in  each  hand,  and  then 
shipped  oars ;  the  lock-gates  opened,  and  the  boat  entered, 
and  in  another  minute  or  two  was  moored  to  the  bank  above 
the  lock,  and  the  crew  strolled  into  tbe  little  inn  which  stands 
by  the  lock,  and,  after  stopping  in  the  bar  to  lay  hands  on  sev- 
eral pewters  full  of  porter,  passed  through  the  house  into  the 
quoit  and  skittle  grounds  behind.  These  were  already  well 
Tilled  with  men  of  other  crews,  playing  in  groups,  or  looking 
on  at  the  players.  One  of  these  groups,  as  they  passed,  seized 
on  the  captain,  and  Miller  stopped  with  him ;  the  rest  of  the 
St.  Ambrose  men,  in  no  humor  for  skittles,  quoits,  or  any  re- 
laxation except  rest  and  grumbling,  took  possession  of  the 
first  table  and  seats  which  offered,  and  came  to  anchor.  Then 
followed  a  moment  of  intense  enjoyment,  of  a  sort  only  ap- 
preciable by  those  who  have  had  a  twelve  miles'  training 
pull  with  a  coxswain  as  sharp  as  a  needle  and  in  an  awful 
temper. 


MUSCULAR  CHKISTIANITY.  IU 

"  Ah,"  said  Drysdale,  taking  a  pewter  down  from  his  lips, 
With  a  sigh,  and  handing  it  to  Torn,  who  sat  next  him,  "  by 
Jove,  I  feel  better." 

"  It's  almost  worth  while  pulling  'hard  all'  from  Abingdon, 
to  get  such  a  thirst,"  said  another  of  the  crew. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  though,"  said  Drysdale,  "  to-day's  the 
last  day  you'll  catch  me  in  this  blessed  boat." 

Tom  had  just  finished  his  draught,  but  did  not  reply;  it  was 
by  no  means  the  first  time  that  Drysdale  had  announced  this 
resolve.  The  rest  were  silent  also. 

"  It's  bad  enough  to  have  to  pull  your  heart  out,  without 
getting  abused  all  the  way  into  the  bargain.  There  Miller 
stands  in  the  stern — and  a  devilish  easy  thing  it  is  to  stand 
there  and  walk  into  us — I  can  see  him  chuckle  as  he  comes  to 
to  you  and  me,  Brown — 'Now,  2,  well  forward.'  '3,  don't 
jerk.'  '  Now,  2,  throw  your  weight  on  the  oar ;  come,  now, 
you  can  get  another  pound  on.'  I  hang  on  like  grim  Death. 
Then  it's,  'Time,  2;  now,  3—'" 

"Well,  it's  a  great  compliment,"  broke  in  Tom,  with  a 
laugh  :  "  he  thinks  he  can  make  something  of  us." 

"  He'll  make  nothing  of  us  first,  I  think,"  said  Drysdale. 
"I've  lost  eight  pounds  in  a  fortnight.  The  captain  ought 
to  put  me  in  every  place  in  the  boat,  in  turn,  to  make  it  water- 
tight. I've  larded  the  bottom  boards  under  my  seat  so  that 
not  a  drop  of  water  will  ever  come  through  again." 

"  A  very  good  thing  for  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Diogenes ; 
"  you  look  ten  times  better  than  you  did  at  the  beginning  of 
term." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  a  good  thing,  you  old  fluter. 
I'm  obliged  to  sit  on  my  hip-bones;  I  can't  go  to  lecture;  all 
the  tutors  think  I'm  poking  fun  at  them,  and  put  me  on  di- 
rectly. I  haven't  been  able  to  go  to  lecture  this  ten  days." 

*'  So  fond  of  lecture  as  he  is,  too,  poor  fellow,"  put  in 
Tom. 

"  But  they've  stopped  my  commons,  for  staying  away,"  said 
Drysdale ;  "  not  that  I  care  much  for  that,  though." 

"  Well,  Miller  goes  down  to-morrow  morning — I  heard  him 
say  so,"  said  another. 

"  Then  we'll  memorialize  the  captain,  and  get  out  of  these 
Abingdon  pulls.  Life  isn't  worth  having  at  tins  rate.'* 

"  No  other  boat  has  been  below  Sandford,  yet." 

And  so  they  sat  on  and  plotted,  and  soon  most  of  the  other 
eresvs  started.  And  then  they  took  their  turn  at  skittles, 
and  almost  forgot  their  grievances,  which,  in  order  to  be  clear, 
I  must  now  explain  to  those  of  my  readers  who  don't  know 
the  river  at  Oxford. 


11G  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

The  river  runs  along  the  south  of  the  city,  getting  into  the 
university  quarter  after  it  passes  under  the  bridge  connecting 
Berks  and  Oxfordshire,  over  which  is  the  road  to  Abingdon. 
Just  below  this  bridge  are  the  boat-builders'  establishments  on, 
both  sides  of  the  river,  and  then  on  the  Oxfordshire  side  is 
Christen urch  Meadow,  opposite  which  is  moored  the  university 
barge.  Here  is  the  goal  of  all  university  races,  or  used  to  be 
in  the  times  I  am  speaking  of ;  and  the  racecourse  stretches 
away  down  the  river  for  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  a  little  below 
the  starting-place  of  the  races  in  Iffley  Lock.  The  next  lock 
below  Iffley  is  the  Sandford  Lock  (where  we  left  our  boat's 
crew  playing  at  skittles),  which  is  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
below  Iffley.  Below  Sandford  there  is  no  lock  till  you  get  to 
Abingdon,  a  distance  of  six  miles  and  more  by  the  river.  Now, 
inasmuch  as  the  longest  distance  to  be  rowed  in  the  races  is 
only  the  upper  mile  and  a  half  from  Iffiey  to  the  university 
barge,  of  course,  all  the  crews  think  themselves  very  hardly 
treated  if  they  are  taken  further  than  to  Sandford.  Pulling 
"hard  all"  from  Sandford  to  Iffley,  and  then  again  from  Iffley 
over  the  regular  course,  ought  to  be  enough  in  all  conscience 

C7  '  O  O 

to  chorus  the  crews  ;  and  most  captains  and  coxswains  give  in. 
But  here  and  there  some  enemy  of  his  kind — some  uncom- 
fortable, worriting,  energizing  mortal,  like  Miller — gets  com- 
mand of  a  boat,  and  then  the  unfortunate  crew  are  dragged, 
bemoaning  their  fate,  down  below  Sandford,  where  no  friendly 
lock  intervenes  to  break  off  the  long,  steady  swing  of  the 
training-pull  every  two  miles ;  and  the  result  for  the  time  is 
blisters  and  mutiny ;  though  I  am  bound  to  add  that  it  gener- 
ally tells,  and  that  the  crew  which  has  been  undergoing  that 
peine  forte  et  d'lire  is  very  apt  to  get  the  change  out  of  it  on 
the  nights  of  hard  races. 

So  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  played  out  their  skittles,  and 
settled  to  appeal  to  the  captain  in  a  body  the  next  day,  after 
Miller's  departure ;  and  then,  being  summoned  to  the  boat, 
they  took  to  the  water  again,  and  paddled  steadily  up  home, 
arriving  just  in  time  for  Hall  for  those  who  liked  to  hurry. 
Drysdale  never  liked  hurrying  himself;  besides,  he  could  not 
dine  in  Hall,  as  he  was  discommonsed  for  persistent  absence 
from  lectures,  and  neglect  to  go  to  the  dean,  when  sent  for  to 
explain  his  absence. 

"  I  say,  Brown,  hang  Hall,"  he  said  to  Tom,  who  was  throw- 
ing on  his  things ;  "  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  Mitre. 
I'll  give  you  a  bottle  of  hock ;  it's  very  good  there." 

"  Hock's  about  the  worst  thing  you  can  drink  in  training," 
said  Miller;  "  isn't  it,  Jervis?" 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  117 

"  It's  no  good,  certainly,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  put  on  his 
cap  and  gown.  "  Come  along,  Miller." 

"There,  you  hear?"  said  Miller.  "  You  can  drink  a  glass 
of  sound  sherry,  if  you  want  wine."  And  he  followed  the 
captain. 

Drysdale  performed  a  defiant  pantomime  after  the  retiring 
coxswain,  and  then  easily  carried  his  point  with  Tom,  except 
as  to  the  hock.  So  they  walked  up  to  the  Mitre  together, 
where  Drysdale  ordered  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  hock  in  the 
coffee-room. 

"  Don't  order  hock,  Drysdale ;    I  sha'n't  drink  any." 

"  Then  1  shall  have  it  all  to  my  own  cheek.  If  you  begin 
making  a  slave  of  yourself  to  that  Miller,  he'll  very  soon  cut 
you  down  to  a  glass  of  water  a  day,  with  a  pinch  of  rhubarb  in 
it,  and  make  you  drink  that  standing  on  your  head." 

"  Gammon  ;  but  I  don't  think  it's  fair  on  the  rest  of  the  crew 
not  to  train  as  well  as  one  can." 

"  You  don't  suppose  drinking  a  pint  of  hock  to-night  will 
make  me  pull  any  the  worse  this  day  six  weeks,  when  the  races 
beofm,  do  you?" 

«Xo;  but—" 

"  llullo !  look  here,"  said  Drysdale,  who  was  inspecting  a 
printed  bill  pinned  up  on  the  wall  of  the  coffee-room ;  "Womb- 
well's  menagerie  is  in  the  town,  somewhere  down  by  Worces- 
ter. What  fun  !  We'll  go  there  after  dinner." 

The  food  arrived  with  Drysdale's  hock,  which  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  all  the  more  from  the  assurance  which  every  glass  gave 
him  that  he  was  defying  the  coxswain,  and  doing  just  the 
thing  he  would  most  dislike.  So  he  drank  away,  and  face- 
'tionsly  speculated  how  he  could  be  such  an  idiot  as  to  go  on 
pulling.  Every  day  of  his  life  he  made  good  resolutions  in  the 
reach  above  the  Gut  that  it  should  be  his  last  performance,  and 
always  broke  them  next  day.  He  supposed  the  habit  he  had 
of  breaking  all  good  resolutions  was  the  way  to  account  for  it. 

After  dinner,  they  set  off  to  find  the  wild  beast  show;  and, 
as  they  will  be  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  reaching  it,  for  the 
pitch  is  in  a  part  of  the  suburbs  little  known  to  gownsmen,  I 
propose  to  seize  the  ooDortunity  of  making  a  few  remarks  to 
the  patient  reader. 

Our  hero,  on  his  first  appearance  in  public,  some  years  since, 
was,  without  his  own  consent,  at  once  patted  on  the  back  by 
the  good-natured  critics,  and  enrolled  for  better  for  worse  in 
the  brotherhood  of  muscular  Christians,  who  at  that  time  were 
beginning  to  be  recognized  as  an  actual  and  lusty  portion  of 
general  British  life.  As  his  biographer,  I  am  not  about  to  take 


118  TON  BROWN  A T  OXFORD, 

exceptions  to  his  enrolment ;  for,  after  considering  the  persons 
up  and  down  her  majesty's  dominions  to  whom  the  new  nick- 
name has  been  applied,  the  principles  which  they  are  supposed 
to  hold,  and  the  sort  of  lives  they  are  supposed  to  lead,  I 
cannot  see  where  he  could  in  these  times  have  fallen  upon  a 
nobler  brotherhood.  I  am  speaking,  of  course,  under  correc- 
tion, and  with  only  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the  faith  of 
muscular  Christianity,  gathered  almost  entirely  from  the  witty 
expositions  and  comments  of  persons  of  a  somewhat  dyspeptic 
habit,  who  are  not  amongst  the  faithful  themselves.  Indeed,  I 
am  not  aware  that  any  authorized  articles  of  belief  have  been 
sanctioned  or  published  by  the  sect,  church,  or  whatever  they 
may  be.  Moreover,  at  the  age  at  which  our  hero  has  arrived, 
and  having  regard  to  his  character,  I  should  say  that  he  has  in 
all  likelihood  thought  very  little  on  the  subject  of  belief,  and 
would  scarcely  be  able  to  give  any  formal  account  of  his  own, 
beyond  that  contained  in  the  Church  Catechism,  which  I,  for 
one,  think  may  very  well  satisfy  him  for  the  present.  Never- 
theless, had  he  been  suddenly  caught  at  the  gate  of  St.Arabrose's 
College,  by  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  do  the  classifying  for  the 
British  public,  and  accosted  with,  "  Sir,  you  belong  to  a  body 
whose  creed  is  to  love  God,  and  walk  one  thousand  miles  in 
one  thousand  hours,"  I  believe  he  would  have  replied,  "Do 
I,  sir?  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it.  They  must  he  a  very  good 
set  of  fellows !  how  many  weeks'  training  do  they  allow?" 

But  in  the  course  of  my  inquiries  on  the  subject  of  muscular 
Christians,  their  works  and  ways,  a  fact  has  forced  itself  on 
my  attention,  which  for  the  sake  of  ingenious  youth,  like  my 
hero,  ought  not  to  be  passed  over.  I  find  then,  that  side  by 
side  with  these  muscular  Christians,  and  apparently  claiming 
some  sort  of  connection  with  them  (the  same  concern,  as  the 
pirates  of  trade-marks  say),  have  risen  up  another  set  of  per- 
sons, against  whom  I  desire  to  caution  my  readei-s  and  my 
hero,  and  to  warn  the  latter  that  I  do  not  mean  on  any  pre- 
tence whatever  to  allow  him  to  connect  himself  with  them, 
however  much  he  may  be  taken  with  their  off-hand,  "hail- 
brother  well-met"  manner  and  dress,  which  may  easily  lead 
careless  observers  to  take  the  counterfeit  for  the  true  article. 
I  must  call  the  persons  in  question  "musclemen,"  as  distin- 
guished from  muscular  Christians  ;  the  only  point  in  common 
between  the  two  being,  that  both  hold  it  to  be  a  good  thing  to 
have  strong  and  well-exercised  bodies,  ready  to  be  put  at  the 
shortest  notice  to  any  work  of  which  bodies  are  capable,  and 
to  do  it  well.  Here  all  likeness  ends,  for  the  muscleman 
seems  to  have  no  belief  whatever  as  to  the  purposes  for  which 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  119 

his  body  has  been  given  him,  except  some  lazy  idea  that  it  is 
to  go  up  and  down  the  world  with  him,  belaboring  men  and 
captivating  women  for  his  benefit  or  pleasure,  at  once  the  ser- 
vant and  fermenter  of  those  fierce  and  brutal  passions  which 
he  seems  to  think  it  a  necessity,  and  rather  a  fine  thing  than 
otherwise,  to  indulge  and  obey.  Whereas,  so  far  as  I  Know, 
the  least  of  the  muscular  Christians  has  hold  of  the  old  chival 
rons  and  Christian  belief,  that  a  man's  body  is  given  him  to  be 
trained  and  brought  into  subjection,  and  then  used  for  the  pro- 
tection  of  the  weak,  the  advancement  of  all  righteous  causes, 
and  the  subduing  of  the  earth  which  God  has  given  to  the 
children  of  men.  He  does  not  hold  that  mere  strength  or 
activity  are  in  themselves  worthy  of  any  respect  or  worship, 
or  that  one  man  is  a  bit  better  than  another  because  he  can 
knock  him  down,  or  carry  a  bigger  sack  of  potatoes  than  he. 
For  mere  power,  whether  of  body  or  intellect,  he  has  (I  hope 
and  believe)  no  reverence  whatever,  though,  cceteris  paribus, 
he  would  probably  himself,  as  a  matter  of  taste,  prefer  the  man 
who  can  lift  a  hundredweight  round  his  head  with  his  little 
finger,  to  the  man  who  can  construct  a  string  of  perfect  Sorites, 
or  expound  the  doctrine  of  "  contradictory  inconceivables." 

The  above  remarks  occur  as  our  hero  is  marching  innocently 
down  towards  his  first  "  town  and  gown"  row,  and  I  should 
scarcely  like  to  see  him  in  the  middle  of  it,  without  protest- 
ing that  it  is  a  mistake.  I  know  that  he,  and  other  youngsters 
of  his  kidney,  will  have  fits  of  fighting,  or  desiring  to  fight 
with  their  poorer  brethren,  just  as  children  have  the  measles. 
But  the  shorter  the  fit  the  better  for  the  patient,  for  like  the 
measles,  it  is  a  great  mistake  and  a  most  unsatisfactory  com- 
plaint. If  they  can  escape  it  altogether  so  much  the  better. 
But  instead  of  treating  the  fit  as  a  disease,  mnsclemen  profes- 
sors are  wont  to  represent  it  as  a  state  of  health,  and  to  let 
their  disciples  run  about  in  middle  age  with  the  measles  on 
them  as  strong  as  ever.  Now  although  our  hero  had  the  mea- 
sles on  him  at  this  particular  time,  and  the  passage  of  arms, 
which  I  am  about  shortly  to  describe  led  to  results  of  some 
importance  in  his  history,  and  cannot  therefore  be  passed  over 
yet  I  wish  at  the  same  time  to  disclaim,  both  in  my  sponsorial 
and  individual  character,  all  sympathy  with  town  and  gown 
rows,  and  with  all  other  class  rows  and  quarrels  of  every  sort 
and  kind,  whether  waged  with  sword,  pen,  tongue,  fist,  or 
otherwise.  Also  to  say  that  in  all  such  rows,  so  far  as  1  have 
seen  or  read,  from  the  time  when  the  Roman  plebs  marched 
out  to  Mons  Sacer,  down  to  1848,  when  the  English  chartists 
met  on  Kenningtou  Common,  the  upper  class  are  most  to 


120  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOU1). 

blame.  It  may  be  that  they  are  not  tho  aggressors  on  any 
given  occasion ;  very  possibly  they  may  carry  on  the  actual 
fighting  with  more  fairness  (though  this  is  by  no  means  true  as 
a  rule)  ;  nevertheless,  the  state  of  feeling  which  makes  such 
things  possible,  especially  in  England,  where  men  in  general 
are  only  too  ready  to  be  led  and  taught  by  their  superiors  in 
rank,  may  be  fairly  laid  at  their  door.  Even  in  the  case  of 
strikes,  which  just  now  will  of  course  be  at  once  thrown  in  my 
teeth,  I  sny  fearlessly,  Let  any  man  take  the  trouble  to  study 
the  question  honestly,  and  he  will  come  to  the  conviction  that 
all  combinations  of  the  men  for  the  purpose  of  influencing  the 
labor  market,  whether  in  the  much  and  unjustly  abused  Trades' 
Societies,  or  in  other  forms,  have  been  defensive  organizations, 
and  that  the  masters  might,  as  a  body,  over  and  over  again 
have  taken  the  sting  out  of  them  if  they  would  have  acted 
fairly,  as  many  individuals  amongst  them  have  done:  whether 
it  may  not  be  too  late  now,  is  a  tremendous  question  for  Eng- 
land, but  one  which  time  only  can  decide. 

When  Drysdalc  and  Tom  at  last  found  the  caravans,  it  was 
just  getting  dark.  Something  of  a  crowd  had  collected  out- 
side, and  there  was  some  hissing  as  they  ascended  the  short 
flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  platform  in  front  of  the  show  ; 
but  they  took  no  notice  of  it,  paid  their  money,  and  entered. 

Inside  they  found  an  exciting  scene.  The  place  was  pretty  well 
lighted,  and  the  birds  and  beasts  were  all  alive  in  their  several 
dens  and  cages,  walking  up  and  down,  and  each  uttering  remon- 
strances after  their  own  manner,  the  shrill  notes  of  birds  ming- 
ling with  the  moan  of  the  beasts  of  prey  and  chatterings  of  the 
monkeys.  Feeding  time  had  been  put  off  till  night  to  suit  the 
undergraduates,  and  the  undergraduates  were  proving  their 
appreciation  of  the  attention  by  playing  off  all  manner  of  prac- 
tical jokes  on  birds  and  beasts,  their  keepers,  and  such  of  the 
public  as  had  been  rash  enough  to  venture  in.  At  the  further 
end  was  the  keeper,  who  did  the  showman,  vainly  endeavoring 
to  go  through  his  usual  jog-trot  description.  His  monotone 
was  drowned  every  minute  by  the  chorus  of  voices,  each  shout 
ing  out  some  new  fact  in  natural  history  touching  the  biped  o- 
quadruped  whom  the  keeper  was  attempting  to  describe.  At 
that  day  a  great  deal  of  this  sort  of  chaff  was  current,  so  that 
the  most  dunderheaded  boy  had  plenty  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue.  A  small  and  indignant  knot  of  townspeople,  headed  by 
a  stout  and  severe  middle-aged  woman,  with  two  big  boys,  her 
sons,  followed  the  keeper,  endeavoring  by  caustic  remarks  and 
withering  glances  to  stop  the  flood  of  chaff,  and  restore  legiti- 
mate authority  and  the  reign  of  keeper  and  natural  history. 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.          .  121 

At  another  point  was  a  long  Irishman  in  cap  and  gown,  who 
had  clearly  had  as  much  wine  as  he  could  carry,  close  to  the 
bars  of  the  panther's  den,  through  which  he  was  earnestly  en- 
deavoring, with  the  help  of  a  crooked  stick,  to  draw  the  tail  of 
whichever  of  the  beasts  stopped  for  a  moment  in  its  uneasy 
walk.  On  the  other  side  were  a  set  of  men  bent  on  burning 
the  wretched  monkeys'  fingers  with  the  lighted  ends  of  their 
cigars,  in  which  they  seemed  successful  enough,  to  judge  by 
the  angry  chatterings  and  shriekings  of  their  victims. 

The  two  new-comers  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  platform 
inside  the  curtain ;  and  then  Drysdale,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
in  high  glee  at  the  sight  of  so  much  misrule  in  so  small  a 
place,  led  the  way  down  on  the  floor  deep  in  sawdust,  exclaim- 
ing,  "  Well,  this  is  a  lark !  We're  just  in  for  all  the  fun  of 
the  fair." 

Tom  followed  his  friend,  who  made  straight  for  the  show- 
man, and  planted  himself  at  his  side,  just  as  that  worthy, 
pointing  with  his  pole,  was  proceeding — 

"This  is  the  jackal,  from—" 

"  The  Caribee  Hielands,  of  which  I  am  a  native  mysel'," 
shouted  a  gownsman. 

"  This  is  the  jackal,  or  lion's  provider,"  began  again  the 
much  enduring  keeper. 

"  Who  always  goes  before  the  lion  to  purwide  his  purwisions, 
purwiding  there's  anything  to  purwide,"  put  in  Drysdale. 

" — really  I  do  think  it's  scandalous  not  to  let  the  keeper 
tell  about  the  beasteses,"  said  the  unfortunate  matron,  with  a 
half  turn  towards  the  persecutors,  and  grasping  her  bag. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  Drysdale,  in  his  softest  voice,  "  I 
assure  you  lie  knows  nothing  about  the  beasteses.  We  are 
Doctor  Buckland's  favorite  pupils,  are  also  well  known  to  the 
great  Panjandrum,  and  have  eaten  more  beasteses  than  the 
keeper  has  ever  seen." 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  young  man,  but  you  don't 
know  how  to 'behave  yourselves,"  rejoined  the  outraged  female  ; 
and  the  keeper,  giving  up  the  jackal  as  a  bad  job,  pointing 
with  "his  pole,  proceeded — 

"The  little  hanimal,  in  the  upper  cage  is  the  hopossum,  of 
North  America — " 

"  The  misguided  offspring  of  the  raccoon  and  the  gumtree," 
put  in  one  of  his  tormentors. 

Here  a  frightful  roaring  and  struggling  at  a  little  distance, 
mingled  with  shouts  of  laughter,  ancT"  Hold  on,  Pat!  "  "Go 
it,  panther!  "  interrupted  the  lecture,  and  caused  a  rush  to  the 
other  side,  where  the  long  Irishman,  Donovan  by  name,  with 


122  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

one  foot  against  the  bars,  was  holding  on  to  the  tail  of  one  of 
the  panthers,  which  he  had  at  length  managed  to  catch  hold  of. 
The  next  moment  he  was  flat  on  his  back  in  the  sawdust,  and 
his  victim  was  bounding  wildly  about  the  cage.  The  keeper 
hurried  away  to  look  after  the  outraged  panther ;  and  Drys- 
dale,  at  once  installing  himself  as  showman,  began  at  the  next 
cage — 

"  This  is  the  wild  man  of  the  woods,  or  whangee  tangee,  the 
most  untamable — good  heavens,  ma'am,  take  care !  "  and  he 
seized  hold  of  the  unfortunate  woman  and  pulled  her  away 
from  the  bars. 

"  Oh,  goodness ! "  she  screamed,  "  it't  got  my  tippet ;  O, 
Bill,  Peter,  catch  hold !  "  Bill  and  Peter  proved  unequal  to 
the  occasion,  but  a  gownsman  seized  the  vanishing  tippet,  and 
after  a  moment's  struggle  with  the  great  ape,  restored  a  measure 
half  to  the  proper  owner,  while  Jacko  sat  grinning  over  the 
other  half,  and  picking  it  to  pieces. 

The  poor  woman  had  now  had  enough  of  it,  and  she  hurried 
off  with  her  two  boys,  followed  by  a  few  townspeople  who 
were  still  in  the  show,  to  lay  her  case  directly  before  the  mayor, 
.is  she  informed  the  delinquents  from  the  platform  before  dis- 
appearing. Her  wrongs  were  likely  to  be  more  speedily 
avenged,  to  judge  by  the  angry  murmurs  which  arose  outside 
immediately  after  her  exit. 

But  still  the  high  jinks  went  on,  Donovan  leading  all  mischief, 
until  the  master  of  the  menagerie  appeared  inside  and  remon- 
strated with  the  men.  He  must  send  for  a  police,  he  said,  if 
they  would  not  leave  the  beasts  alone.  He  had  put  off  the 
feeding  in  order  to  suit  them ;  would  they  let  his  keepers  feed 
the  beasts  quietly?  The  threat  of  the  police  was  received 
with  shouts  of  defiance  by  some  of  the  men,  though  the  greater 
part  seemed  of  the  opinion  that  matters  were  getting  serious. 

The  proposal  for  feeding,  however,  was  welcomed  by  all  and 
comparative  quiet  ensued  for  some  ten  minutes,  while  the 
baskets  of  joints,  bread,  stale  fish,  and  potatoes  were  brought 
in,  and  the  contents  distributed  to  the  famishing  occupants  of 
the  cages.  In  the  interval  of  peace  the  showman -keeper,  on  a 
hint  from  his  master,  again  began  his  round.  But  the  spirit  of 
mischief  was  abroad,  and  it  only  needed  this  to  make  it  break 
out  again.  In  another  two  minutes  the  beasts,  from  the  lion 
to  the  smallest  monkey,  were  struggling  for  their  suppers  with 
one  or  more  undergraduates  ;  the  elephant  had  torn  the  gown 
off  Donovan's  back,  having  only  just  missed  his  arm  ;  and  the 
manager,  in  a  confusion  worthy  of  the  tower  of  Babel,  sent  off 
a  keeper  for  the  city  police,  and  turned  the  gas  out. 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  123 

The  audience,  after  the  first  moment  of  surprise  and  indigna- 
tion, groped  their  way  towards  the  steps  and  mounted  the 
platform,  where  they  held  a  council  of  war.  Should  they  stay 
where  they  were  or  make  a  sally  at  once,  break  through  the 
crowd  and  get  back  to  their  colleges.  It  was  curious  to  see 
how  in  that  short  minute  individual  character  came  out,  and 
the  coward,  the  cautious  man,  the  resolute,  prompt  English- 
man, each  were  there,  and  more  than  one  species  of  each. 

Donovan  was  one  of  the  last  up  the  steps,  and  as  he 
stumbled  up  caught  something  of  the  question  before  the 
house.  He  shouted  loudly  at  once  for  descending  and  of- 
fering battle.  "  But,  boys,"  he  added,  "  first  wait  till  I  address 
the  meeting,''  and  he  made  for  the  opening  in  the  canvas 
through  which  the  outside  platform  was  reached.  Stump 
oratory  and  a  free  fight  was  just  the  two  temptations  which 
Donovan  was  wholly  unable  to  resist;  and  it  was  with  a  face 
radiant  with  devil-may-care  delight  that  he  burst  through  the 
opening,  followed  by  all  the  rest  (who  felt  that  the  matter  was 
out  of  their  hands,  and  must  go  its  own  way  after  the  Irish- 
man), and  rolling  to  the  front  of  the  outside  platform  rested 
one  hand  on  the  rail,  and  waved  the  other  gracefully  towards 
the  crowd.  This  was  the  signal  for  a  burst  of  defiant  shouts 
and  hissing.  Donovan  stood  blandly  waving  his  hand  for 
silence.  Drysdale,  running  his  eye  over  the  mob,  turned  to 
the  rest  and  said,  "  There's  nothing  to  stop  us,  not  twenty 
grown  men  in  the  whole  lot."  Then  one  of  the  men,  lighting 
upon  the  drum-sticks,  which  the  usual  man  in  corduroys  had 
hidden  away,  began  beating  the  big  drum  furiously.  One  of 
the  unaccountable  whims  which  influence  crowds  seized  on 
the  mob,  and  there  was  almost  perfect  silence.  This  seemed 
to  take  Donovan  by  surprise ;  the  open  air  was  having  the 
common  effect  on  him ;  and  he  was  getting  unsteady  on  his 
legs,  and  his  brains  were  wandering.  "  Now's  your  time, 
Donovan,  my  boy,  be^in." 

"  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,  what'll  I  say  ?  let's  see,"  said  Donovan, 
putting  his  head  on  one  side — 

"  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,"  suggested  some  wag. 

"  To  be  sure,"  cried  Donovan  ;  "  Friends,  Romans,  country- 
men, lend  me  your  ears." 

"  Bravo,  Pat,  well  begun  ;  pull  their  ears  well  when  you've 
got  'em." 

"  Bad  luck  to  it  !  where  was  I  ?  you  divels — I  mean  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  Oxford  city  as  I  was  saying,  the  poets — " 

Then  the  storm  of  shouting  and  hissing  arose  again,  and 
Donovan,  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  or  two  to  go  on,  leaned 


124  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

forward  and  shook  his  fist  generally  at  the  mob.  Luckily  for 
him,  there  were  no  stones  about  ;  but  one  of  the  crowd,  catch- 
ing the  first  missile  at  hand,  which  happened  to  be  a  cabbage 
stalk,  sent  it  with  true  aim  at  the  enraged  orator.  He  jerked 
his  head  on  one  side  to  avoid  it;  the  motion  unsteadiedhiscap 
he  threw  up  his  hand,  which  instead  of  catching  the  falling 
cap,  as  it  was  meant  to  do,  sent  it  spinning  among  the  crowd 
below.  The  owner,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  clapped 
both  hands  on  the  bar  before  him  and  followed  his  property, 
vaulting  over  on  to  the  heads  of  those  nearest  the  platform, 
amongst  whom  he  fell,  scattering  them  right  and  left. 

*'  Come  on,  gown,  or  he'll  be  murdered^'  sang  out  one  of 
Donovan's  friends.  Tom  was  one  of  the  first  down  the  step : 
they  rushed  to  the  spot  in  another  moment,  and  the  Irishman 
rose,  plastei*ed  with  dirt,  but  otherwise  none  the  worse  for  his 
feat ;  his  cap,  covered  with  mud,  was  proudly  stuck  on  hind 
part  before.  He  was,  of  course,  thirsting  for  battle,  but  not 
quite  so  much  master  of  his  strength  as  usual ;  so  his  two 
friends,  who  were  luckily  strong  and  big  men,  seized  him,  one 
to  each  arm. 

"  Come  along,  keep  together,"  was  the  word  ;  "  there's  no 
time  to  lose.  Push  for  the  corn-market." 

The  cry  of  "  Town  !  town  J "  now  rose  on  all  sides.  The 
gownsmen  in  a  compact  body,  with  Donovan  in  the  middle, 
pushed  rapidly  across  the  open  space  in  which  the  caravans 
were  set  up  and  gained  the  street.  Here  they  were  comparative- 
ly safe ;  they  were  followed  close,  but  could  not  be  surrounded 
by  the  mob.  And  now  again  a  bystander  might  have  amused 
himself  by  noting  the  men's  characters.  Three  or  four  pushed 
rapidly  on,  and  were  out  of  sight  ahead  in  no  time.  The 
greater  part,  without  showing  any  actual  signs  of  fear,  kept 
steadily  on,  at  a  good  pace  ;  close  behind  these,  Donovan  strug- 
gled violently  with  his  t\vo  conductors,  and  shouted  defiance 
to  the  town  ;  while  a  small  and  silent  rear-guard,  amongst 
whom  were  Tom  and  Drysdale,  walking  slowly  and,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, carelessly  behind,  within  a  few  yards  of  the  crowd  of 
shouting  boys  who  headed  the  advancing  town.  Tom  him- 
self felt  his  heart  beating  quick,  and  I  don't  think  had  any 
particular  desire  for  the  fighting  to  begin,  with  such  long  odds 
on  the  town  side  ;  but  he  was  resolved  to  be  in  it  as  soon  as 
any  one  if  there  was  to  be  any.  Thus  they  marched  through 
one  or  two  streets  without  anything  more  serious  than  an  oc- 
casional stone  passing  their  ears.  Another  turn  would  have 
brought  them  into  the  open  parts  of  the  town,  within  hearing 
of  the  colleges,  when  suddenly  Donovan  broke  loose  from  his 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  125 

supporters,  and  rushing  with  a  shout  on  the  advanced  guard  of 
the  town,  drove  them  back  in  confusion  for  gome  yards.  The 
only  thing  to  do  was  to  back  him  up ;  so  the  rear-guard,  shout- 
ing "  Gown  !  gown  ! "  charged  after  him.  The  effect  of  the 
onset  was  like  that  of  Blount  at  Flodden,  when  he  saw  Mar- 
mion's  banner  go  down, — a  wide  space  was  cleared  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  town  driven  back,  on  to  the  pavements  and  up  the 
middle  of  the  street,  and  the  rescued  Donovan  caught,  set  on 
his  legs  and  dragged  away  again  some  paces  towards  college. 
But  the  charging  body  was  too  few  in  number  to  improve  the 
first  success,  or  even  to  insure  its  own  retreat.  "  Darkly  closed 
the  war  around."  The  town  lapped  on  them  from  the  pave- 
ments, and  poured  on  them  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  be- 
fore they  had  time  to  rally  and  stand  together  again.  What 
happened  to  the  rest — who  was  down,  who  up,  who  fought, 
who  fled,— Tom  had  no  time  to  inquire ;  for  he  found  himself 
suddenly  the  centre  of  a  yelling  circle  of  enemies.  So  he  set  his 
teeth  and  buckled  to  his  work  ;  and  the  thought,  of  splendid 
single  combat,  and  glory  such  as  he  had  read  of  in  college 
stories,  and  tradition  handing  him  down  as  the  hero  of  that 
great  night,  flashed  into  his  head  as  he  cast  his  eye  round  for 
foemen  worthy  of  his  steel.  None  such  appeared  ;  so,  select- 
ing the  one  most  of  his  own  size,  he  squared  and  advanced  on 
him.  But  the  challenged  one  declined  the  combat,  and  kept 
retreating  ;  while  from  behind,  and  the  sides,  one  after  another 
of  the  "  town  "  rushing  out  dealt  Tom  a  blow  and  vanished 
again  into  the  crowd. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  kept  his  head  and  temper ;  the  as- 
sailants, individually,  were  too  insignificant  to  put  out  his 
strength  upon;  but  head  and  temper  were  rapidly  going;  he 
was  like  a  bull  in  the  arena,  with  the  picadores  sticking  their 
little  javelins  in  him.  A  smart  blow  on  the  nose,  which  set  a 
myriadof  stars  dancing  before  his  eyes,  finished  the  business,  and 
he  rushed  after  the  last  assailant,  dealing  blows  to  right  and  left, 
on  small  and  great.  The  mob  closed  in  on  him,  still  avoiding 
attacks  in  front,  but  on  flank  and  rear  they  hung  on  him,  and  bat- 
tered at  him.  He  had  to  turn  sharply  round  after  every  step 
to  shake  himself  clear,  and  at  each  turn  the  press  thickened,  the 
shouts  waxed  lender  and  fiercer;  he  began  to  get  unsteady; 
totteced,  swayed,  and  stumbled  over  a  prostrate  youth,  at  last 
went  down  full  length  on  to  the  pavement,  carrying  a  couple  of 
Jus  assailants  with  him.  And  now  it  would  have  fared  hard 
with  him,  and  he  would  scarcely  have  reached  college  with  sound 
bones — for  I  am  sorry  to  say  an  Oxford  town  mob  is  a  cruel  and 
brutal  one,  and  a  man  who  is  down  has  no  chance  with  them, — 


126  TOM' BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

but  that  for  one  moment  he  and  his  prostrate  foes  were  s« 
jumbled  together  that  the  town  could  not  get  at  him,  and  the 
next,  the  cry  of  "  Gown !  gown  ! "  rose  high  above  the  din  ;  the 
town  were  swept  back  again  by  the  rush  of  a  reinforcement  of 
gownsmen,  the  leader  of  whom  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
put  him  on  his  legs  again  ;  while  his  late  antagonists  crawled 
away  to  the  side  of  the  road. 

"  Why,  Brown ! "  said  his  rescuer, — Jervis,  the  captain, — 
«  this  you  ?  Not  hurt,  eh  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Tom. 

"  Good ;  come  on,  then  ;  stick  to  me." 

In  three  steps  they  joined  the  rest  of  the  gown,  now  number- 
ing some  twenty  men.  The  mob  was  close  before  them,  gather- 
ing for  another  rush.  Tom  felt  a  cruel,  wild  devil  beginning  to 
rise  in  him ;  he  had  never  felt  the  like  before.  This  time  he 
longed  for  the  next  crash,  which,  happily  for  him,  was  fated 
never  to  come  off. 

"  Your  names  and  colleges,  gentlemen,"  said  a  voice  close  be- 
hind them,  at  this  crictical  moment.  The  "  town  "  set  up  a 
derisive  shout,  and,  turning  round,  the  gownsmen  found  the 
velvet  sleeves  of  one  of  the  proctors  at  their  elbows,  and  his 
satellites,  vulgarly  called  bulldogs,  taking  notes,  of  them.  They 
were  completely  caught,  and  so  quietly  gave  the  required  in- 
formation. 

"  You  will  go  to  your  colleges  at  once,"  said  the  proctor, 
"  and  remain  within  gates.  You  will  see  these  gentlemen  to  the 
High  Street,"  he  added  to  his  marshal,  and  then  strode  on  after 
the  crowd,  which  was  vanishing  down  the  street. 

The  men  turned  and  strode  towards  the  High  Street,  the 
marshal  keeping,  in  a  deferential  but  wide-awake  manner,  pretty 
close  to  them,  but  without  making  any  show  of  watching  them. 
When  they  reached  the  High  Street,  he  touched  his  hat,  and 
said,  civilly,  "  I  hope  you  will  go  home  now,  gentlemen ;  the 
senior  proctor  is  very  strict." 

"  All  right,  marshal ;  good-night,"  said  the  good-natured  ones. 

"D — his  impudence,"  growled  one  or  two  of  the  rest,  and 
the  marshal  bustled  away  after  his  master.  The  men  looked  at 
one  another  for  a  moment  or  two.  They  were  of  different  col- 
leges, and  strangers.  The  High  Street  was  quiet ;  so,  without 
the  exchange  of  a  word,  after  the  manner  of  British  youth,  they 
broke  up  into  twos  and  threes,  and  parted.  Jervis,  Tom,  and 
Drysdale,  who  turned  up  quite  undamaged,  sauntered  together 
towards  St.  Ambrose's. 

"I  say  where  are  we  going?  "  said  Drysdale. 

"Not  to  college.  I  vote,"  said  Tom. 


MUSCULAR  CHRISTIANITY.  127 

"  No  ;  there  may  be  some  more  fun." 

"  Mighty  poor  fun,  I  should  say,  you'll  find  it,"  said  Jervis ; 
"  however  if  you  will  stay,  I  suppose  I  must.  I  can't  leave  you 
two  boys  by  yourselves." 

"Come  along,  then,  down  here."  So  they  turned  down  one 
of  the  courts  leading  out  of  the  High  Street,  and  so,  by  back 
streets,  bore  up  again  for  the  disturbed  districts. 

"  Mind  and  keep  a  sharp  look-out  for  the  proctors,"  said  Jer- 
vis ;  "  as  much  row  as  you  please,  but  we  musn't  be  caught 
again." 

"  Well  only  let  us  keep  together,  if  we  have  to  bolt." 

They  promenaded  in  lonely  dignity  for  some  five  minutes, 
keeping  eyes  and  ears  on  full  strain. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Drysdale,  at  last,  "  it  isn't  fair  these 
enemies  in  the  camp ;  what  with  '  the  town '  and  their  stones  and 
fists,  and  the  proctors  with  their  '  name  and  college,'  we've  got 
the  wrong  end  of  the  stick." 

"  Both  wrong  ends,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Jervis.  "  Holloa, 
Brown,  your  nose  is  bleeding." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Tom  drawing  his  hand  across  his  face ;  "  t'was 
that  confounded  little  fellow,  then,  who  ran  up  to  my  side  while 
I  was  squaring  at  the  long  party.  1  felt  a  sharp  crack,  and  the 
little  rascal  bolted  into  the  crowd  before  I  could  turn  at  him." 

"  Cut  and  come  again,"  said  Drysdale,  laughing. 

"  Ay  that's  the  regular  thing  in  these  blackguard  street 
squabbles.  Here  they  come,  then,"  said  Jervis,  "  Steady, 
all." 

They  turned  round  to  face  the  town,  which  came  shouting 
down  the  street  behind  them,  in  pursuit  of  one  gownsman,  a 
little,  harmless,  quiet  fellow,  who  had  fallen  in  with  them  on  hi« 
way  back  to  his  college  from  a  tea  with  his  tutor,  and  like  a  wise 
man  was  giving  them  leg-bail  as  hard  as  he  could  foot  it.  But 
the  little  man  was  of  a  courageous,  though  prudent,  soul,  and 
turned,  panting  and  gasping,  on  his  foes  the  moment  he  found 
himself  amongst  friends  again. 

"  Now,  then  stick  together ;  don't  let  them  get  round  us,"  said 
Jervis. 

They  walked  steadily  down  the  street  which  was  luckily  a 
narrow  one,  so  that  three  of  them  could  keep  the  whole  of  it, 
halting  and  showing  front  every  few  yards,  when  the  crowd 
pressed  too  much.  "  Down  with  them !  Town,  town  !  That's 
two  as  was  in  the  show."  "  Mark  the  velvet-capped  chap. 
Town,  town  ! "  shouted  the  hinder  part  of  the  mob ;  but  it  was 
a  rabble  of  boys,  as  before,  and  the  front  rank  took  veiy  good 
of  itself  and  forbore  from  close  quarters. 


J28  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

The  small  gownsman  had  now  got  his  wind  again,  and.  smart- 
ing under  the  ignominy  of  his  recent  flight,  was  always  a  pace 
or  two  nearer  the  crowd  than  the  other  three,  ruffling  up  like  a 
little  bantam,  and  shouting  defiance  between  the  catchings  of 
his  breath. 

"  You  vagabonds !  you  cowards  !  Come  on  now,  I  say  !  Gown 
gown !  "  And  at  last,  emboldened  by  the  repeated  halts  of  the 
mob,  and  thirsting  for  revenge,  he  made  a  dash  at  one  of  the 
nearest  of  the  enemy.  The  suddenness  of  the  attack  took  both 
sides  by  surprise,  then  came  a  rush  by  two  or  three  of  the  town 
to  the  rescue. 

"  No,  no  !  stand  back — one  at  a  time,"  shouted  the  captain, 
throwing  himself  between  the  combatants  and  the  mob.  *'  Go 
it,  little  'un ;  serve  him  out.  Keep  the  rest  back,  boys  :  steady !" 
Tom  and  Drysdale  faced  towards  the  crowd,  while  the  little 
gownsman  and  his  antagonist — who  defended  himself  vigor- 
ously enough  now — came  to  close  quarters,  in  the  rear  of  the 
gown  line,  too  close  to  hurt  one  another,  but  what  with  hug- 
ging and  cuffing,  the  townsman  in  another  half-minute  was  sit- 
ting quietly  on  the  pavement  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  his 
enemy  squaring  in  front  of  him,  and  daring  him  to  renew  the 
combat.  "  Get  up,  you  coward  ;  get  up,  I  say,  you  coward  ! 
He  won't  get  up,"  said  the  little  man,  eagerly  turning  to  the 
captain.  "  Shall  I  give  him  a  kick  ?  " 

"No,  let  the  cur  alone"  replied  Jervis.  "Now,  do  any 
more  of  you  want  to  fight?  Come  on,  like  men,  one  at  a  time. 
I'll  fight  any  man  in  the  crowd." 

Whether  the  challenge  would  have  been  answered  must  rest 
uncertain  ;  for  now  the  crowd  began  to  look  back,  and  a  cry 
arose,  "Here  they  are,  proctors !  now  they'll  run." 

"So  we  must,  by  Jove,  Brown,"  said  the  captain.  "  What's 
your  college  ?  "  to  the  little  hero. 

"Pembroke." 

"  Cut  away,  then;  you're  close  at  home." 

"  Very  well,  if  I  must ;  good-night,"  and  away  went  the 
small  man  as  fast  as  he  had  come  ;  and  I  have  never  heard  that 
lie  came  to  further  grief  or  performed  other  feats  that  night 
not  here  set  down. 

"  Hang  it,  don't  let's  run,"  said  Drysdale. 

"  Is  it  the  proctors  ?  "  said  Tom.     "  I  can't  see  them." 

"  Mark  the  bloody-faced  one ;  kick  him  over,"  sang  out  a 
voice  in  the  crowd. 

" Thankee,"  said  Tom,  savagely.  "Let's  have  one  rush  at 
them." 

"Look!  there's  the  proctor's  cap  just  through  them;  come 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS.  129 

along,  boys — well,  sta;/  if  you  like,  and  be  rusticated,  I'm  off;" 
and  away  went  Jervk,  and  the  next  moment  Tom  and  Drys- 
dale  followed  the  good  example,  and  as  they  had  to  run,  made 
the  best  use  of  their  legs,  and  in  two  minutes  were  well  ahead 
of  their  pursuers.  They  turned  a  corner ;  "  Here,  Brown  !  a 
light  in  this  public,  cut  m  and  it's  all  right."  Next  moment 
they  were  in  the  dark  passage  cf  a  quiet  little  inn,  and  heard 
with  a  chuckle  part  of  the  crowd  scurry  by  the  door  in  pursuit 
while  they  themselves  suddenly  appeared  in  the  neat  little  bar 
to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  its  occupants.  These  were  & 
stout,  elderly  woman  in  spectacles,  who  was  stitching  away  at 
plain  work  in  an  arm-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire ;  the  foreman 
of  one  of  the  great  boat-builders,  who  sat  opposite  her,  smok- 
ing his  pipe,  with  a  long  glass  of  clear  ale  at  his  elbow ;  and  a 
bright-eyed,  neat-handed  barmaid,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
table,  and  talking  to  the  others  as  they  entered. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS. 

THE  old  lady  dropped  her  work,  the  barmaid  turned  round 
with  a  start  and  little  ejaculation,  and  the  foreman  stared  with 
all  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then,  jumping  up,  exclaimed, — 

"  Bless  us,  if  it  isn't  Muster  Drysdale  and  Muster  Brown,  of 
Ambrose's.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  sir  ?  Muster  Brown,  you 
be  all  covered  wi'  blood,  sir." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  poor  young  gentleman  !  "  cried  the  hostess. 
"  Here,  Patty,  run  and  tell  Dick  to  go  for  the  doctor,  and  get 
the  best  room  !  " 

''  No,  please  don't ;  it's  nothing  at  all,"  interrupted  Tom. 
laughing.  "  A  basin  of  cold  water  and  a  towel,  if  you  pfease, 
Miss  Patty,  and  I  shall  be  quite  presentable  in  a  minute.  I'm 
very  sorry  to  have  frightened  you  all." 

Drysdale  joined  in  assurances  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  little 
of  his  friend's  "  claret,"  which  he  would  be  all  the  better  for 
losing,  and  watched  with  an  envious  eye  the  interest  depicted 
in  Patty's  pretty  face,  as  she  hurried  in  with  a  basin  of  fresh 
pumped  water,  and  held  the  towel  while  Tom  bathed  his  face, 
and  very  soon  was  as  respectable  a  member  of  society  as  usual, 
save  for  a  slight  swelling  on  one  side  of  his  nose. 

Drysdale,  meantime,  seated  on  the  table,  had  been  explaining 
the  circumstances  to  the  landlady  and  the  foreman,  whose  ro- 


130  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

flections  on  the  occasion  I  shall  not  trouble  my  readers  with, 
though  they  were  full  of  wisdom.  "  And  now,  ma'am,"  said 
he,  as  Tom  joined  them  and  seated  himself  on  a  vacant  chair, 
"  I'm  sure  you  must  draw  famous  ale." 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  think  Dick — that's  my  ostler,  sir — is  as  good 
a  brewer  as  is  in  the  town.  We  always  brews  at  home,  sir,  and 
I  hope  always  shall." 

"  Quite  right,  ma'am,  quite  right,"  said  Drysdale ;  "  and  I 
don't  think  we  can  do  better  than  follow  Jem,  here.  Let  us 
have  a  jug  of  the  same  ale  as  he  is  drinking.  And  you'll  take 
a  glass  with  us,  Jem  ?  or  will  you  have  spirits  ?  " 

Jem  was  for  another  glass  of  ale,  and  bore  witness  to  its  be- 
ing the  best  in  Oxford,  and  Patty  drew  the  ale,  and  supplied 
two  more  long  glasses.  Drysdale,  with  apologies,  produced 
his  cigar-case ;  and  Jem,  under  the  influence  of  the  ale  and  a 
first-rate  Havana  (for  which  he  deserted  his  pipe,  though  he 
did  not  enjoy  it  half  as  much),  volunteered  to  go  and  rouse 
the  yard  and  conduct  them  safely  back  to  college.  This 
offer  was,  of  course,  politely  declined,  and  then,  Jem's  hour  for 
bed  having  come,  he,  being  a  methodical  man,  as  became  his 
position,  departed,  and  left  our  two  young  friends  in  sole  pos- 
session of  the  bar.  Nothing  could  have  suited  the  two  young 
gentlemen  better,  and  they  set  to  work  to  make  themselves 
agreeable.  They  listened  with  lively  interest  to  the  landlady's 
statement  of  the  difficulties  of  a  widow  woman  in  a  house  like 
hers,  and  to  her  praises  of  her  factotum  Dick  and  her  niece 
Patty.  They  applauded  her  resolution  of  not  bringing  up  her 
two  boys  in  the  publican  line,  though  they  could  offer  no  very 
available  advice  in  answer  to  her  appeals  for  advice  as  to  what 
trade  they  should  be  put  to ;  all  trades  were  so  full,  and  things 
were  not  as  they  used  to  be.  The  one  thing,  apparently,  which 
was  wanting  to  the  happiness  of  Drysdale  at  Oxford,  was  the 
discovery  of  such  beer  as  he  had  at  last  found  at  "  The  Choughs." 
Dick  was  to  come  up  to  St.  Ambrose's  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning  and  carry  off  his  barrel,  which  would  never  contain  in 
future  any  other  liquid.  At  last  that  worthy  appeared  in  the 
bar  to  know  when  he  was  to  shut  up,  and  was  sent  out  by  his 
mistress  to  see  that  the  street  was  clear,  for  which  service  he 
received  a  shilling,  though  his  offer  of  escort  was  declined. 
And  so,  after  paying  in  a  splendid  manner  for  their  entertain- 
ment, they  found  themselves  in  the  street,  and  set  off  for  col- 
lege, agreeing  on  the  way  that  "  The  Choughs"  was  a  great 
find,  the  old  lady  the  best  old  soul  in  the  world,  and  Patty  the 
prettiest  girl  in  Oxford.  They  found  the  streets  quiet,  and 
walking  quickly  along  them,  knocked  at  the  college  gates  at 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS.  131 

half-past  eleven.    The  stout  porter  received  them  with  a  long 
face. 

"  Senior  proctor's  sent  down  here  an  hour  back,  gentlemen,  to 
find  whether  you  was  in  college." 

u  You  don't  mean  that,  porter  ?  How  kind  of  him  !  What 
did  you  r»ay  ?  " 

"  Said  J  didn't  know,  sir ;  but  the  marshal  said,  if  you  come 
in  after  that  you  "yaa  to  go  to  the  senior  proctor's  at  half-past 
nine  to-morrow." 

"  Send  my  compliments  to  the  senio?  proctor,"  said  Drysdale, 
"  and  say  I've  a  very  particular  engagement  to-morrow  morning, 
which  will  prevent  my  having  «he  pleasure  of  calling  on  him." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  porter,  giving  a  little  dry  chuckle, 
and  tapping  the  keys  against  his  leg;  "only  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  mind  writing  him  a  note,  sir,  as  he's  rather  a  particu* 
lar  gentleman." 

"  Didn't  he  send  after  any  one  else  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Jervis,  sir." 

"  Well,  and  what  about  him  ? ' 

"  O  sir,  Mr.  Jervis !  an  old  hand,  sir.  He'd  been  in  gates  a 
long  time,  sir,  when  the  marshal  came." 

"  The  sly  old  beggar ! "  said  Drysdale.  "  Good-night  porter. 
Mind  you  send  my  message  to  the  proctor.  If  he  is  set  on 
seeing  me  to-morrow,  you  can  say  that  he'll  find  a  broiled 
chicken  and  a  hand  at  picquet  in  my  rooms,  if  he  likes  to  drop 
in  to  lunch." 

The  porter  looked  after  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  retired 
to  his  deep  old  chair  in  the  lodge,  pulled  his  nightcap  over  his 
ears,  put  up  his  feet  before  the  fire  on  a  high  stool,  and  folded 
his  hands  on  his  lap.  "  The  most  impidentest  thing  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  is  a  gen'l'man-commoner  in  his  first  year,"  solilo- 
quized the  little  man.  "  'Twould  ha'  done  that  one  a  sight  of 
good,  now,  if  he'd  got  a  good  hiding  in  the  street,  to-night.  But 
he's  better  than  most  on  'em,  too,"  he  went  on  ;  "  uncommon, 
free  with  his  tongue,  but  just  as  free  with  his  half-sovereigns.1 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  peach,  if  the  proctor  don't  send  again  in 
the  morning.  That  sort's  good  for  the  college  ;  makes  things 
brisk ;  has  his  wind  from  town,  and  don't  keep  no  keys.  I 
wonder,  now,  if  my  Peter's  been  out  fighting.  He's  pretty  nigh 
as  hard  to  manage,  is  that  boy,  as  if  he  was  at  college  hisself." 

And  so  muttering  over  his  domestic  and  professional  griev- 
ances, the  small  janitor  composed  himself  to  a  nap.  I  may 
add,  parenthetically,  that  his  hopeful  Peter,  a  precocious  youth 
of  seventeen,  scout's  boy  on  No.  3  Staircase  of  St.  Ambrose's 
College,  was  represented  in  the  book-cleaning  and  errand  line 


132  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

by  a  substitute  for  some  days ;  and  when  he  returned  to  duty 
was  minus  a  front  tooth. 

"  What  fools  we  were  not  to  stick  to  the  captain.  I  wonder 
what  we  shall  get,"  said  Tom,  who  was  troubled  in  his  mind  at 
the  proctor's  message,  and  not  gifted  naturally  with  the  reck- 
lessness and  contempt  of  authority  which  in  Drysdale's  case 
approached  the  sublime. 

"Who  cares?  I'll  be  bound  now  the  old  fox  came  straight 
home  to  earth.  Let's  go  and  knock  him  up." 

Tom  assented,  for  he  was  anxious  to  consult  Jervis  as  to  his 
proceedings  in  the  morning ;  so  they  soon  found  themselves 
drumming  at  his  oak,  which  was  opened  shortly  by  the  stroke 
in  an  old  boating-jacket.  They  followed  him  in.  At  one  end 
of  his  table  stood  his  tea-service  and  the  remains  of  his  com- 
mons, which  the  scout  had  not  cleared  away ;  at  the  other,  open 
books,  note-books,  and  maps  showed  that  the  captain  read,  as 
he  rowed,  "  hard  all." 

"  Well,  are  you  two  only  just  in  ?  " 

"  Only  just,  my  captain,"  answered  Drysdale. 

"  Have  you  been  well  thrashed,  then  ?  You  don't  look  much 
damaged." 

"  We  are  innocent  of  fight  since  your  sudden  departure — 
flight,  shall  I  call  it? — my  captain." 

"  Where  have  you  been,  then  ?  " 

"  Where  !  why  in  the  paragon  of  all  pothouses ;  snug  little 
bar  with  red  curtains ;  stout  old  benevolent  female  in  spectacles ; 
.barmaid  a  liouri ;  and  for  malt,  the  most  touching  tap  in  Oxford 
— home-brewed,  too,  wasn't  it,  Brown  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  beer  was  undeniable,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  and  you  dawdled  there  till  now  ?  "  said  Jervis. 

"Even  so.  What  with  mobs  that  wouldn't  fight  fair,  and 
captains  who  would  run  away,  and  proctors  and  marshals  who 
would  interfere,  we  were  '  perfectly  disgusted  with  the  whole 
proceeding,'  as  the  Scotchman  said  when  he  was  sentenced  to 
be  hanged." 

"  Well,  Heaven,  they  say,  protects  children,  sailors,  and 
drunken  men ;  and  whatever  answers  to  Heaven  in  the  aca- 
demical system  protects  freshmen,"  remarked  Jervis. 

"  Not  us,  at  any  rate,"  said  Tom,  "  for  we  are  to  go  to  the 
proctor  to-morrow  morning." 

"  What,  did  he  catch  you  in  your  famous  public  ?  " 

"No;  the  marshal  came  round  to  the  porter's  lodge,  asked 
if  we  were  in,  and  left  word  that,  if  we  were  not,  we  were  to 
go  to  him  in  the  morning.  The  porter  told  us  just  now  as  we 
came  in." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  MOTIONS.  133 

"Pshaw,"  said  the  captain,  with  disgust ;  "  now  you'll  both 
be  gated  probably,  and  the  whole  crew  will  be  thrown  out  of 
gear.  Why  couldn't  you  have  come  home  when  I  did  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  propose  to  attend  the  levee  of  that  excellent 
person  in  office  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Drysdale.  "  He  will 
forget  all  about  it.  Old  Copas  won't  say  a  word — catch  him. 
He  gets  too  much  out  of  me  for  that." 

"Well,  you'll  see  ;  I'll  back  the  proctor's  memory." 

"  But,  captain,  what  are  you  going  to  stand  ?  " 

"  Stand  !  nothing,  unless  you  like  a  cup  of  cold  tea.  You'll 
get  no  wine  or  spirits  here  at  this  time  of  night,  and  the  buttery 
is  shut.  Besides^  you've  had  quite  as  much  beer  as  is  good  for 
you  at  your  paragon  public." 

*  Come,  now,  captain,  just  two  glasses  of  sherry,  and  I'll  prom- 
ise to  go  to  bed." 

"  Not  a  thimbleful." 

"  You  old  tyrant ! "  said  Drysdale,  hopping  off  his  perch  on 
the  elbow  of  the  sofa.  "  Come  along,  Brown,  let's  go  and  draw 
for  some  supper  and  a  hand  at  Van  John.  There's  sure  to  be 
some  going  up  my  staircase  ;  or  at  any  rate,  there's  a  cool  bottle 
of  claret  in  my  rooms." 

"  Stop  and  have  a  talk,  Brown,"  said  the  captain,  and  pre- 
vailed against  Drysdale,  who  after  another  attempt  to  draw 
Tom  off,  departed  on  his  quest  for  drink  and  cards. 

"He'll  never  do  for  the  boat,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  captain  ; 
"  with  his  rascally  late  hours,  and  drinking,  and  eating  all  sorts 
of  trash  one  atop  of  the  other.  It's  a  pitv,  too,  for  he's  a 
pretty  oar  for  his  weight." 

"He  is  such  uncommon  good  company,  too,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what.  He's  just  a  leetle  too  good 
company  for  you  and  me,  or  any  fellows  who  mean  to  take  a 
degree.  Let's  see,  this  is  only  his  third  term  ?  I'll  give  him, 
perhaps,  two  more  to  make  the  place  too  hot  to  hold  him. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  he'll  never  get  to  his  little  go." 

"  It  will  be  a  great  pity,  then,"  said  Tom. 

"  So  it  will.  But  after  all,  you  see,  what  does  it  matter  to 
him  ?  He  gets  rusticated  ;  takes  his  name  off  with  a  flourish 
of  trumpets — what  then  ?  He  falls  back  on  £5,000  a  year  in 
land,  and  a  good  accumulation  in  consols ;  runs  abroad,  or 
lives  in  town  for  a  year.  Takes  the  hounds  when  he  comes  of 
age,  or  is  singled  out  by  some  discerning  constituency,  and 
sent  to  make  laws  for  his  country,  having  spent  the  whole  of 
his  life  hitherto  in  breaking  all  the  laws  he  ever  came  under. 
You  and  I,  perhaps,  go  fooling  about  with  him,  and  get  rusti- 
cated. We  make  our  friends  miserable.  We  can't  take  our 


134  TOM  BKOWfl  AT  OXFORD. 

names  off,  but  have  to  come  ci-inging  back  at  the  end  of  our 
year  marked  men.  Keep  our  tails  between  our  legs  for  the 
rest  of  our  time.  Lose  a  year  at  our  professions,  and  most 
likely  have  the  slip  casting  up  against  us  in  one  way  or  another 
for  the  next  twenty  years.  It's  like  the  old  story  of  the  giant 
and  the  dwarf,  or  like  fighting  a  sweep,  or  any  other  one-sided 
business." 

"  But  I'd  sooner  have  to  fight  my  own  way  in  the  world 
after  all ;  wouldn't  you  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  H — m — m ! "  said  the  captain,  throwing  himself  back  in  his 
chair  and  smiling ;  "  can't  answer  off-hand.  I'm  a  third-year 
man,  and  begin  to  see  the  other  side  rather  clearer  than  I  did 
when  I  was  a  freshman  like  you.  Three  years  at  Oxford,  my 
boy,  will  teach  yon  something  of  what  rank  and  money  count 
for,  if  they  teach  you  nothing  else." 

"  Why,  here's  the  captain  singing  the  same  song  as  Hardy," 
thought  Tom. 

"  So  you  two  have  to  go  to  the  proctor  to-morrow  ?  " 

JL  GS« 

"  Shall  you  go  ?     Drysdale  won't." 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  It  seems  to  me  childish  not  to  go,  as  it 
I  were  back  in  the  lower-school  again.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
the  being  sent  for  isn't  pleasant;  but  the  other  I  couldn't 
stand." 

"  Well,  I  don't  feel  anything  of  that  sort.  But  I  think 
you're  right  on  the  whole.  The  chances  are  that  he'll  remem- 
ber your  name,  and  send  for  you  again,  if  you  don't  go ;  and 
then  you'll  be  worse  off." 

"  You  don't  think  he'll  rusticate  us,  or  anything  of  that  sort  ?  " 
said  Tom,  who  had  felt  horrible  twinges  at  the  captain's 
pictiire  of  the  effects  of  rustication  on  ordinary  mortals. 

"  No ;  not  unless  he's  in  a  very  bad  humor.  I  was  caught 
three  times  in  one  night  in  my  freshman's  term,  and  only  got 
an  imposition." 

"  Then  I  don't  care,"  said  Tom.  "  But  it's  a  bore  to  have 
been  caught  in  so  seedy  an  affair ;  if  it  had  been  a  real  good 
row,  one  wouldn't  have  minded  so  much." 

"  Why,  what  did  you  expect  ?  It  was  neither  better  nor 
worse  than  the  common  run  of  such  things." 

"  Well,  but  three  parts  of  the  crowd  were  boys." 

"So  they  are  always — or  nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  any  rate.91 

"  But  there  was  no  real  fighting :  at  least,  I  only  know  I  -got 
none.** 

"  There  isn't  any  real  fighting  as  you  call  it,  nine  times  on4 
of  ten." 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS.  135 

"  What  is  there  then  ?  " 

"  "Why  something  of  this  sort.  Five  shopboys  or  scouts' 
boys,  full  of  sauciness,  loitering  at  an  out-of-the-way  street 
corner.  Enter  two  freshmen,  full  of  dignity  and  bad  wine. 
Explosion  of  inflammable  material.  Freshmen  mobbed  into 
High  Street  or  Broad  Street,  where  the  tables  are  turned  by 
the  gathering  of  many  more  freshmen,  and  the  mob  of  town 
boys  quietly  subsides,  puts  its  hands  in  its  pockets,  and  ceases 
to  shout  *  Town,  town  ! '  The  triumphant  freshmen  march  up 
and  down  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  shouting  *  Gown,  gown,' 
and  looking  furious,  but  not  half  sorry  that  the  mob  vanishes 
like  mist  at  their  approach.  Then  come  the  proctors,  who  hunt 
down,  and  break  up  the  gown  in  some  half-hour  or  hour.  The 
4  town  '  again  marches  about  in  the  ascendant,  and  mobs  the 
scattered  freshmen,  wherever  they  can  be  caught,  in  very  small 
numbers." 

"  But  with  all  your  chaff  about  freshmen,  captain,  you  were 
in  it  yourself  to-night ;  come,  now." 

*'  Of  course,  I  had  to  look  after  you  two  boys." 

"But  you  didn't  know  we  were  in  it  when  you  came  up." 

"  I  was  sure  to  find  some  of  you.  Besides,  I'll  admit  one 
don't  like  to  go  in  while  there's  any  chance  of  a  real  row,  as 
you  call  it,  and  so  gets  proctorized  in  one's  old  age  for  one's 
patriotism." 

"  Were  you  ever  in  a  real  row  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Yes,  once,  about  a  year  ago.  The  fighting  numbers  were 
about  equal,  and  the  town  all  grown  men,  laborers  and  mechan- 
ics. It  was  desperate  hard  work,  none  of  your  shouting  and 
promenading.  That  Hardy,  one  of  our  Bible  clerks,  fought 
like  a  Paladin ;  I  know  I  shifted  a  fellow  in  corduroys  on  to 
him,  whom  I  had  found  an  uncommon  tough  customer,  and 
never  felt  better  pleased  in  my  life  than  when  I  saw  the  light 
glance  on  his  hobnails  as  he  went  over  into  the  gutter  two 
minutes  afterwards.  It  lasted,  perhaps,  ten  minutes,  and  both 
sides  were  very  glad  to  draw  off." 

"  But  of  course  you  licked  them  ?  " 

*'  We  said  we  did." 

"  Well,  I  believe  that  a  gentleman  will  always  lick  in  a  fair 
fight" 

"  Of  course  you  do ;  it's  the  orthodox  belief. 

"But  don't  you?" 

*•  Yes,  if  he  is  as  big  and  strong,  and  knows  how  to  fight  as 
well  as  the  other.  The  odds  are  that  he  cares  a  little  more  for 
giving  in,  and  that  will  pull  him  through." 

"  That  isn't  saying  much,  though." 


136  TON  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  No,  but  it's  quite  as  much  as  is  true.  I'll  tell  you  what  it 
is,  I  think  just  this,  that  we  are  generally  better  in  the  fighting 
way  than  shopkeepers,  clerks,  flunkies,  and  all  fellows  who 
don't  work  hard  with  their  bodies  all  day.  But  the  moment 
you  come  to  the  real  hard-fisted  fellow,  used  to  nine  or  ten 
hours'  work  a  day,  he's  a  cruel  hard  customer.  Take  seventy 
or  eighty  of  them  at  haphazard,  the  first  you  meet,  and  turn 
them  into  St.  Ambrose  any  morning — by  night  I  take  it  they 
would  be  lords  of  this  venerable  establishment,  if  we  had  to 
fight  for  the  possession ;  except,  perhaps,  for  that  Hardy ;  he's 
one  of  a  thousand,  and  was  born  for  a  fighting  man ;  perhaps 
he  might  pull  us  through." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  him  in  the  boat  ?  " 

"  Miller  manages  all  that.  I  spoke  to  him  about  it  after  that 
row,  but  he  said  that  Hardy  had  refused  to  subscribe  to  the 
club,  said  he  couldn't  afford  it,  or  something  of  the  sort.  I 
don't  see  why  that  need  matter,  myself,  but  I  suppose,  as  we 
have  rules,  we  ought  to  stick  to  them." 

"  It's  a  great  pity,  though.  I  know  Hardy  well,  and  you 
can't  think  what  a  fine  fellow  he  is." 

"  I'm  sure  of  that.  I  tried  to  know  him,  and  we  don't  get 
on  badly  as  speaking  acquaintance.  But  he  seems  a  queer, 
solitary  bird." 

Twelve  o'clock  struck;  so  Tom  wished  the  captain  good- 
night and  departed,  meditating  much  on  what  he  had  heard 
and  seen,  but  not  yet  quite  persuaded  to  give  up  his  romantic 
beliefs  as  to  town  and  gown  rows. 

The  reader,  too,  will  be  outraged,  no  doubt,  and  will  demur 
to  the  prosaic,  not  to  say  vulgar,  sketch  here  submitted  to  him. 
He  will  resent  the  absence  of  terrific  single  combats,  in  which 
the  descendant  of  a  hundred  earls  polishes  off  the  huge  repre- 
sentative of  the  masses  in  the  most  finished  style,  without  a 
scratch  on  his  own  aristocratic  features. 

Well,  well !  a  man  can  only  describe  what  he  has  seen  with 
his  own  eyes  and  known  in  his  own  heart — at  least,  if  he  is  a 
true  mar.. 

At  any  rate,  Tom  went  to  bed  that  night  fairly  sickened  with 
his  experience  of  a  town  and  gown  row,  and  with  a  nasty  taste 
in  his  mouth.  But  he  felt  much  pleased  at  having  drawn  out 
the  captain  so  completely ;  for  the  stroke  was  in  general  a  man 
of  marvellous  few  words,  having  many  better  uses  than  talking 
to  put  his  breath  to. 

Next  morning  Tom  attended  at  the  proctor's  rooms  at  the 
appointed  time,  not  without  some  feeling  of  shame  at  having 
to  do  so  ;  which,  however,  wore  off  when  he  found  some  dozen 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS.  137 

men  of  other  colleges  waiting  about  on  the  same  errand  as 
himself.  In  his  turn,  he  was  ushered  in,  and,  as  he  stood  by 
the  door,  had  time  to  look  the  great  man  over  as  he  sat  making 
a  note  of  the  case  he  had  just  disposed  of.  The  inspection  was 
reassuring.  The  proctor  was  a  gentlemanly,  straightforward- 
looking  man  of  about  thirty,  not  at  all  donnish,  and  his  address 
answered  to  his  appearance. 

"  Mr,  Brown,  of  St.  Ambrose's,  I  think,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  sent  you  to  your  college  yesterday  evening ;  did  you  go 
straight  home  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

'*  How  was  that,  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and  the  proctor  looked  at  him  steadily 
ior  a  few  seconds,  and  then  repeated, — 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  I  don't  mean  to  say  I  was  going 
straight  to  college,  but  I  should  have  been  in  long  before  you 
sent,  only  I  fell  in  with  the  mob  again,  and  then  there  wa's  a 
cry  that  you  were  coming.  And  so — "  He  paused. 

"  Well,"  said  the  proctor,  with  a  grim  sort  of  curl  about  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Why,  I  ran  away,  and  turned  into  the  first  place  which 
was  open,  and  stopped  till  the  streets  were  quiet." 

"  A  public  house,  I  suppose." 

««  Yes,  sir ;  the  «  Choughs.' " 

The  proctor  considered  a  minute,  and  again  scrutinized 
Tom's  look  and  manner,  which  certainly  were  straightforward 
and  without  any  tinge  of  cringing  or  insolence. 

"How  long  have  you  been  up?" 

"  This  is  my  second  term,  sir." 

"  You  have  never  been  sent  to  me  before,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  can't  overlook  this,  as  you  yourself  confess  to  a 
ilirect  act  of  disobedience.  You  must  write  me  out  two  hun- 
dred lines  of  Virgil.  And  now,  Mr.  Brown,  let  me  advise  you 
to  keep  out  of  these  disreputable  street  quarrels  in  future. 
Good-morning." 

Tom  hurried  away,  wondering  what  it  would  feel  like  to  be 
Writing  out  Virgil  again  as  a  punishment  at  his  time  of  life, 
but  glad  above  measure  that  the  proctor  had  asked  him  no 
questions  about  his  companion.  That  hero  was,  of  course, 
mightily  tickled  at  the  result,  and  seized  the  occasion  to  lec- 
ture Tom  on  his  future  conduct,  holding  himself  up  as  a  living 
example  of  the  benefits  which  were  sure  to  accrue  to  a  man 


138  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

who  never  did  anything  he  was  told  to  do.  The  soundness 
of  his  reasoning,  however,  was  somewhat  shaken  by  the  dean, 
who,  on  that  same  afternoon,  managed  to  catch  him  in  quad ; 
and,  carrying  him  off,  discoursed  with  him  concerning  his 
various  and  systematic  breaches  of  discipline,  pointed  out  to 
him  that  he  had  already  made  such  good  use  of  his  time  that 
if  he  were  to  be  discommonsed  for  three  days  more  he  would 
lose  his  term ;  and  then  took  off  his  cross,  gave  him  a  book  of 
Virgil  to  write  out,  and  gated  him  for  a  fortnight  after  hall. 
Drysdale  sent  out  his  scout  to  order  his  punishment  as  he 
might  have  ordered  a  waistcoat,  presented  old  Copas  with  a 
half-sovereign,  and  then  dismissed  punishment  and  gating 
from  his  mind  at  once.  He  cultivated  with  great  success  the 
science  of  mental  gymnastics,  or  throwing  everything  the  least 
unpleasant  off  his  mind  at  once.  And  I  cannot  but  allow  that 
it  is  a  science  worthy  of  all  cultivation,  if  one  desires  to  lead  a 
comfortable  life.  It  gets  harder,  however,  as  the  years  roll 
over  us,  to  attain  to  any  satisfactory  proficiency  in  it ;  so  that 
it  should  be  mastered  as  early  in  life  as  may  be. 

The  town  and  gown  row  was  the  talk  of  the  college  for  the 
next  week.  Tom,  of  course,  talked  much  about  it,  like  his 
neighbors,  and  confided  to  one  and  another  the  captain's  here- 
sies. They  were  all  incredulous ;  for  no  one  had  ever  heard 
him  talk  as  much  in  a  term  as  Tom  reported  him  to  have  done 
on  this  one  evening. 

So  it  was  resolved  that  he  should  be  taken  to  task  on  the 
subject  on  the  first  opportunity,  and  as  nobody  was  afraid  of 
him,  there  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  man  to  bell  the  cat. 
Accordingly,  at  the  next  wine  of  the  boating  set,  the  cap- 
tain had  scarcely  entered  when  he  was  assailed  by  the  host 
with — 

"Jervis,  Brown  says  you  don't  believe  a  gentleman  can 
lick  a  cad,  unless  he  is  the  biggest  and  strongest  of  the  two." 

The  captain  who  hated  coming  out  with  his  beliefs,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  sipped  his  wine,  and  tried  to  turn  the  subject. 
But,  seeing  that  they  were  all  bent  on  drawing  him  out,  he 
was  not  the  man  to  run  from  his  guns ;  and  so  said,  quietly, — 

"  No  more  I  do." 

Notwithstanding  the  reverence  in  which  he  was  held,  this 
saying  could  not  be  allowed  to  pass,  and  a  dozen  voices  were 
instantly  raised,  and  a  dozen  authentic  stories  told  to  con- 
fute him.  He  listened  patiently  and  then,  seeing  that  he  was 
in  for  it,  said, — 

"  Never  mind  fighting.  Try  something  else  ;  cricket,  for 
instance.  The  players  generally  beat  the  gentlemen;  don't 
they?" 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  NOTIONS.  139 

M  Yes ;  but  they  are  professionals." 

"  Well,  and  we  don  t  often  get  a  university  crew  which  can 
beat  the  watermen." 

"  Professionals  again." 

"I  believe  the  markers  are  the  best  tennis-players,  ain't 
they  ?  "  persevered  the  captain ;  "  and  I  generally  find  keepers 
and  huntsmen  shooting  and  riding  better  than  their  masters; 
ion'tyou?" 

"But  that's  not  fair.  All  the  cases  you  put  are  those 
of  men  who  have  nothing  else  to  do,  who  live  by  the  things 
which  gentlemen  only  take  up  for  pleasure." 

"  I  only  say  that  the  cads,  as  you  call  them,  manage  some- 
how or  another,  to  do  them  best,"  said  the  captain. 

"  How  about  the  army  and  navy  ?    The  officers  always  lead.** 

"  Well,  there  they're  all  professionals,  at  any  rate,"  said  the 
captain.  "  I  admit  the  officers  lead  ;  but  the  men  follow  pretty 
close.  And  in  a  forlorn  hope  there  are  fifty  men  to  one  officer, 
after  all." 

"  But  they  must  be  led.  The  men  will  never  go  without  an 
officer  to  lead." 

"  It's  the  officers'  business  to  lead,  I  know  ;  and  they  do  it. 
But  you  won't  find  the  best  judges  talking  as  if  the  men  wanted 
much  leading.  Read  Napier  :  the  finest  story  in  his  book  is  of 
the  sergeant  who  gave  his  life  for  his  boy  officer's — your  name- 
sake, Brown  at  the  Coa." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  to  hear  you  crying  down  gentlemen." 

"  I'm  not  crying  down  gentlemen,"  said  the  captain.  "I 
only  say  that  a  gentleman's  flesh  and  blood  and  brains  are  just 
the  same,  and  no  better,  than  another  man's.  He  has  all  the 
chances  on  his  side  in  the  way  of  training,  and  pretty  near  all 
the  prizes  ;  so  it  would  be  hard  if  he  didn't  do  most  things  bet- 
ter than  poor  men.  But  give  them  the  chance  of  training,  and 
they  will  tread  on  his  heels  soon  enough.  That's  all  I  say." 

That  was  all,  certainly,  that  the  captain  said,  and  then  relaps- 
ed into  his  usual  good-tempered,  monosyllabic  state ;  from 
which  all  the  eager  talk  of  the  dozen  men,  who  took  up  the  cud- 
gels naturally  enough  for  their  own  class,  and  talked  themselves, 
before  the  wine  broke  up,  into  a  renewed  consciousness  of  their 
natural  superiority,  failed  again  to  rouse  him. 

This  was,  in  fact,  the  captain's  weak  point,  if  he  had  one. 
He  had  strong  beliefs  himself  ;  one  of  the  strongest  of  which  was, 
that  nobody  could  be  taught  anything  except  by  his  own  ex- 
perience ;  so  he  never,  or  very  rarely,  exercised  his  own  per- 
sonal influence,  but  just  quietly  went  his  own  way,  and  let  men 
go  theirs.  Another  of  his  beliefs  was,  that  there  was  no  man 


140  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

or  thing  in  the  world  too  bad  to  be  tolerated  ;  faithfully  acting 
up  to  which  belief,  the  captain  himself  tolerated  persons  and 
things  intolerable. 

Bearing  which  facts  in  mind,  the  reader  will  easily  guess 
the  result  of  the  application  which  the  crew  duly  made  to  him 
the  day  after  Miller's  back  was  turned.  He  simply  said  that 
the  training  they  proposed  would  not  be  enough,  and  that  he 
himself  should  take  all  who  chose  to  go  down  to  Abingdon 
twice  a  week.  From  that  time  there  were  many  defaulters ; 
and  the  spirit  of  Diogenes  groaned  within  him,  as  day  after  day 
the  crew  had  to  be  tilled  up  from  the  torpid  or  by  watermen. 
Drysdale  would  ride  down  to  Sanford,  meeting  the  boat  on  its 
way  up,  and  then  take  his  place  for  the  pull  up  to  Oxford, 
while  his  groom  rode  his  horse  up  to  Folly  bridge  to  meet  him ; 
there  he  would  mount  again,  and  ride  off  to  Bullingdon,  or  to 
the  Isis,  or  Quentin,  or  other  social  meeting  equally  inimical 
to  good  training.  Blake  often  absented  himself  three  days  in 
a  week,  and  other  men  once  or  twice. 

From  considering  which  facts,  Tom  came  to  understand  the 
differences  between  his  two  heroes ;  their  strong  likeness  in 
many  points  he  had  seen  from  the  first.  They  were  alike  in 
truthfulness,  bravery,  bodily  strength,  and  in  most  of  their  opin- 
ions. But  Jervis  worried  himself  about  nothing,  and  let  all 
men  and  things  alone,  in  the  belief  that  the  world  was  not  go- 
ing so  very  wrong,  or  woukl  right  itself  somehow  without  him. 
Hardy,  on  the  other  hand,  was  consuming  his  heart  over  every- 
thing that  seemed  to  him  to  be  going  wrong  in  himself  and 
round  about  him — in  the  college,  in  Oxford,  in  England,  in  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  never  letting  slip  a  chance  of  trying  to 
set  right,  here  a  thread,  and  there  a  thread ;  a  self-questioning, 
much-enduring  man  ;  a  slayer  of  dragons  himself,  and  one 
with  whom  you  could  not  live  much  without  getting  uncom- 
fortably aware  of  the  dragons  which  you  also  had  to  slay. 

What,  wonder  that,  apart  altogether  from  the  difference  in 
their  social  position,  the  one  man  was  ever  becoming  more  and 
more  popular,  while  the  other  was  left  more  and  more  to  him- 
self. There  are  few  of  us,  I  believe,  at  Oxford,  or  elsewhere, 
who  do  not  like  to  see  a  man  living  a  brave  and  righteous  life,  so 
long  as  he  keeps  clear  of  them,  and  still  fewer  who  do  like  to 
be  in  constant  contact  with  one  who,  not  content  with  so  liv- 
ing himself,  is  always  coming  across  them,  and  laying  bare  to 
them  their  own  faintheartedness  and  sloth  and  meanness. 
The  latter,  I  admit,  inspires  the  deeper  feeling,  and  lays  hold 
with  a  firmer  grip  of  the  men  he  does  lay  hold  of,  but  they  are 
few.  For  men  can't  keep  always  up  to  high  pressure  till  they 


THE  CAPTAINS  NOTIONS.  141 

have  found  firm  ground  to  build  upon,  altogether  outside  of 
themselves ;  and  it  is  hard  to  be  thankful  and  fair  to  those  who 
are  showing  us  time  after  time  that  our  foothold  is  nothing  but 
shifting  sand. 

The  contrast  between  Jervis  and  Hardy  now  began  to  force 
itself  daily  more  and  more  on  our  hero's  attention.  From  the 
night  of  the  town  and  gown  row,  "  The  Choughs  "  became  a 
regular  haunt  of  the  St.  Ambrose  crew,  who  were  taken  there 
under  the  guidance  of  Tom  and  Drysdale  the  next  day.  Not 
content  with  calling  there  on  his  way  from  the  boats,  thsre 
was  seldom  an  evening  now  that  Tom  did  not  manage  to  drop 
in  and  spend  an  hour  there. 

When  one  is  very  much  bent  on  doing  a  thing,  it  is  gen- 
erally easy  enough  to  find  very  good  reasons,  or  excuses  at  any 
rate,  for  it ;  and  whenever  any  doubts  crossed  Tom's  mind,  he 
silenced  them  by  the  reflection  that  the  time  he  spent  at  "  The 
Choughs  "  would  otherwise  have  been  devoted  to  wine  parties 
or  billiards ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  to  persuade  himself  that 
his  present  occupation  was  the  more  wholesome  of  the  two. 
He  could  not,  however,  feel  satisfied  till  he  had  mentioned  his 
change  in  life  to  Hardy.  This  he  found  a  much  more  embarass- 
ing  matter  than  he  had  fancied  it  would  be.  But  after  one  or 
two  false  starts,  he  managed  to  get  out,  that  he  had  found  the 
best  glass  of  ale  in  Oxford,  at  a  quiet  little  public  on  the  way  to 
the  boats,  kept  by  the  most  perfect  of  old  widows,  with  a 
factotum  of  an  ostler,  who  was  a  regular  character,  and  that 
he  went  there  most  evenings  for  an  hour  or  so.  Wouldn't 
Hardy  come  some  night  ? 

No,  Hardy  couldn't  spare  the  time. 

Tom  felt  rather  relieved  at  this  answer,  but,  nevertheless, 
went  on  to  urge  the  excellence  of  the  ale  as  a  further  induce- 
ment. 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  half  so  good  as  our  college  beer,  and 
I'll  be  bound  it's  half  as  dear  again." 

"Only  a  penny  a  pint  dearer,"  said  Tom;  "that  won't  ruin 
you.  All  the  crew  go  there." 

"  If  I  were  the  captain,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  wouldn't  let  you  run 
about  drinking  ale  at  night  after  wine  parties.  Does  he  know 
about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  goes  there  himself  often  on  his  way  from  the 
boat,"  said  Tom. 

"  And  at  night,  too  ?  "  said  Hardy. 

"  No,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  I  don  t  go  there  after  drinking 
wine  ;  I  haven't  been  to  a  wine  this  ten  days,  at  least,  not  for 
more  than  five  minutes." 


142  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Well,  sound  ale  is  better  than  Oxford  wine,"  said  Hardy, 
"  if  you  must  drink  something."  And  so  the  subject  dropped. 

And  Tom  went  away,  satisfied  that  Hardy  had  not  disap- 
proved of  his  new  habit.  It  certainly  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  omitted  all  mention  of  the  pretty  barmaid  in  his  enumera- 
tion of  the  attractions  of  "  The  Choughs,"  but  this  he  set  down  to 
mere  accident ;  it  was  a  slip  which  he  would  set  right  in  their 
next  talk.  But  that  talk  never  came,  and  the  subject  was  not 
again  mentioned  between  them.  In  fact,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Tom's  visits  to  his  friend's  room  in  the  evenings  became 
shorter  and  less  frequent  as  "  The  Choughs  "  absorbed  more 
and  more  of  his  time.  He  made  excuses  to  himself  that  Hardy 
must  be  glad  of  more  time,  and  would  be  only  bored  if  he  kept 
dropping  in  every  night,  now  that  the  examination  for  degree 
was  so  near;  that  he  was  sure  he  drove  Grey  away,  who  would 
be  of  much  more  use  to  Hardy  just  now.  These,  and  many 
other  plausible  reasons  suggested  themselves  whenever  his 
conscience  smote  him  for  his  neglect,  as  it  did  not  seldom ;  and 
he  always  managed  to  satisfy  himself  somehow,  without  ad- 
mitting the  real  fact,  that  these  visits  were  no  longer  what 
they  had  been  to  him,  that  a  gulf  had  sprung  up  and  was 
widening  day  by  day  between  him  and  the  only  friend  who 
would  have  had  the  courage  and  honesty  to  tell  him  the  truth 
about  his  new  pursuit.  Meantime,  Hardy  was  much  pained 
at  the  change  in  his  friend,  which  he  saw  quickly  enough,  and 
often  thought  over  it  with  a  sigh  as  he  sat  at  his  solitary  tea, 
and  set  it  down  to  his  own  dulness,  to  the  number  of  new 
friends  whom  such  a  sociable  fellow  as  Tom  was  sure  to  make, 
and  who,  of  course,  would  take  up  more  and  more  of  his  time  ; 
and,  if  he  felt  a  little  jealousy  every  now  and  then,  put  it  res- 
olutely back,  struggling  to  think  no  evil,  or  if  there  were  any, 
to  lay  it  on  his  own  shoulders. 

Cribbage  is  a  most  virtuous  and  respectable  game,  and  yet 
scarcely,  one  would  think,  possessing  in  itself  sufficient  attrac- 
tions to  keep  a  young  gentleman  in  his  twentieth  year  tied  to 
the  board,  and  going  through  the  quaint  calculation  night  after 
night  of  "  fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,  two  for  his  nob,  and  one 
for  his  heels."  The  landlady  of  «  The  Choughs  "  liked  noth- 
ing so  much  as  her  game  of  cribbage  in  the  evenings,  and  the 
board  lay  ready  on  the  little  table  by  her  elbow  in  the  cozy 
bar,  a  sure  stepping-stone  to  her  good  graces.  Tom  somehow 
became  an  enthusiast  in  cribbage,  and  would  always  loiter  be- 
hind his  companions  for  his  quiet  game ;  chatting  pleasantly 
while  the  old  lady  cut  and  shuffled  the  dirty  pack,  striving 
keenly  for  the  nightly  stake  of  sixpence,  which  he  seldom  failed 


THE  FIRST  BUMP.  143 

to  lose,  and  laughingly  wrangling  with  her  over  the  last 
points  in  the  game,  which  decided  the  transfer  of  the  two  six- 
pences (duly  posted  in  the  snuffer-tray  beside  the  cribbage- 
board)  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  or  her  bag,  until  she  would 
take  off  her  spectacles  to  wipe  them,  and  sink  back  in  her  chair 
exhausted  with  the  pleasing  excitement. 

Such  on  odd  taste  as  it  seemed,  too,  a  bystander  might  rea- 
sonably have  thought,  when  he  might  have  been  employing  his 
time  so  much  more  pleasantly  in  the  very  room.  For,  flitting 
in  and  out  of  the  bar  during  the  game,  and  every  now  and 
then  stooping  over  the  old  lady's  shoulder  to  examine  her  hand 
and  exchange  knowing  looks  with  her,  was  the  lithe  little 
figure  of  Miss  Patty,  with  her  oval  face,  and  merry  eyes,  and 
bright  brown  hair,  and  jaunty  little  cap,  with  fresh  blue  ribbons 
of  the  shade  of  the  St.  Ambrose  colors.  However,  there  is  no 
accounting  for  tastes,  and  it  is  fortunate  that  some  like  apples 
and  some  onions.  It  may  possibly  be,  too,  that  Miss  Patty  did 
not  feel  herself  neglected,  or  did  not  care  about  attention. 
Perhaps  she  may  not  have  been  altogether  unconscious  that 
every  least  motion  and  word  of  hers  was  noticed,  even  when 
the  game  was  at  its  keenest.  At  any  rate,  it  was  clear  enough 
that  she  and  Tom  were  on  the  best  terms,  though  she  always 
took  the  aunt's  part  vehemently  in  any  little  dispute  which 
arose,  and  sometimes  even  came  to  the  rescue  at  the  end,  and 
recaptured  the  vanished  sixpences  out  of  the  wrongful  grasp 
which  he  generally  laid  on  them  the  moment  the  old  lady  held 
out  her  hand  and  pronounced  the  word  "game."  One  knows 
that  size  has  little  to  do  with  strength,  or  one  might  have  won- 
dered that  her  little  hands  should  have  been  able  to  open  his 
fingers  so  surely  one  by  one,  though  he  seemed  to  do  all  he 
could  to  keep  them  shut.  But,  after  all,  if  he  really  thought 
he  had  a  right  to  the  money,  he  had  always  time  to  put  it  in 
his  pocket  at  once,  instead  of  keeping  his  clenched  hand  on 
the  table,  and  arguing  about  till  she  had  time  to  get  up  to  the 
succor  of  her  aunt. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

THE  FLBST  BUMP. 

""WHAT'S  the  time,  Smith  ?  " 

"  Half-past  three,  old  fellow,"  answered  Diogenes,  looking 
at  his  watch. 

«'  I  never  knew  a  day  go  so  slowly,"  said  Tom  ;  "  isn't  it  timo 
to  ffo  down  to  the  boats  ?  " 


]  44  TOM  BROWN  A T 

"  Not  by  two  hours  and  more,  old  fellow.  Can't  you  take  a 
book,  or  something,  to  keep  you  quiet  ?  You  won't  be  fit  for 
anything  by  six  o'clock,  if  you  go  on  worrying  like  this."  And 
so  Diogenes  turned  himself  to  his  flute,  and  blew  away,  to  all 
appearances  as  composedly  as  if  it  had  been  the  first  week  of 
term,  though,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  all  he  could  do 
not  to  get  up  and  wander  about  in  a  feverish  and  distracted 
state,  for  Tom's  restlessness  infected  him. 

Diogenes'  whole  heart  was  in  the  college  boat :  and  so,  though 
he  had  pulled  dozens  of  races  in  his  time,  he  was  almost  as 
nervous  as  2,  freshman  on  this  the  first  day  of  the  races.  Tom, 
all  unconscious  of  the  secret  discomposure  of  the  other,  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  looked  at  him  with  wonder  and  envy. 
The  flute  went  "  toot,  toot,  toot,"  till  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer ;  so  he  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and,  leaning 
out,  looked  up  and  down  the  street  for  some  minutes  in  a  pur- 
poseless sort  of  fashion,  staring  hard  at  everybody  and  every- 
thing, but  unconscious  all  the  time  that  he  was  doing  so.  He 
would  not  have  been  able,  in  fact,  to  answer  Diogenes  a  word, 
had  that  worthy  inquired  of  him  what  he  had  seen,  when  he 
presently  drew  in  his  head  and  returned  to  his  fidgety  ram- 
blings  about  the  room. 

"  How  hot  the  sun  is !  but  there's  a  stiff  breeze  from  the 
south-east.  I  hope  it  will  go  down  before  the  evening  ;  don't 
you?" 

"  Yes  ;  this  wind  will  make  it  very  rough  below  the  Gut. 
Mind  you  feather  high  now  at  starting." 

"I  hope  to  goodness  I  sha'n't  catch  a  crab,"  said  Tom. 

"Don't  think  about  it,  old  fellow;  that's  your  best  plan." 

"But  I  can't  think  of  anything  else,"  said  Tom.  "What 
the  deuce  is  the  good  of  telling  a  fellow  not  to  think  about 
it?" 

Diogenes,  apparently,  had  nothing  particular  to  reply,  for  he 
put  his  flute  to  his  mouth  again  ;  and  at  the  sound  of  the. 
"  toot,  toot,"  Tom  caught  up  his  gown  and  fled  away  into  the 
quadrangle. 

The  crew  had  had  their  early  dinner  of  steaks  and  chops, 
stale  br?a«l,  and  a  glass  and  a  half  of  old  beer  apiece,  at  two 
o'clock,  in  the  captain's  rooms.  The  current  theory  of  train- 
ing at  that  time  was — as  much  meat  as  you  could  eat,  the  more 
underdone  the  better,  and  the  smallest  amount  of  drink  upon 
which  you  could  manage  to  live.  Two  pints  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours  was  all  that  most  boats'  crews  that  pretended  to 
train  at  all  were  allowed,  and  for  the  last  fortnight  it  had  been 
the  nominal  allowance  of  fche  St.  Ambrose  crew.  The  discom 


THE  FIRST  BUMP  145 

fort  of  such  a  diet  in  the  hot  summer  months,  when  you  were 
at  the  same  time  taking  regular  and  violent  exercise,  was 
something  very  serious.  Outraged  human  nature  labelled 
against  it;  and,  I  take  it,  though  they  did  not  admit  it  in  pub- 
lic, there  were  very  few  men  who  did  not  rush  to  their  water- 
bottles  for  relief,  more  or  less  often,  according  to  the  develop, 
ment  of  their  bumps  of  conscientiousness  and  obstinacy.  To 
keep  to  the  diet  at  all  strictly,  involved  a  very  respectable 
amount  of  physical  endurance.  I  am  thankful  to  hear  that  our 
successors  have  found  out  the  unwisdom  of  this,  as  of  other  old 
superstitions,  and  that  in  order  to  get  a  man  into  training  for  a 
boat-race  now-a-days,  it  is  not  thought  of  the  first  importance 
to  keep  him  in  a  constant  state  of  consuming  thirst,  and  the 
restlessness  of  body  and  sharpness  of  temper  which  thirst  gen- 
erally induces. 

Tom  appreciated  the  honor  of  being  in  the  boat  in  his  first 
year  so  keenly,  that  he  had  almost  managed  to  keep  to  his 
training  allowance,  and  consequently,  now  that  the  eventful 
day  had  arrived,  was  in  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of  body  and 
disagreeable  frame  of  mind. 

He  fled  away  from  Diogenes'  flute,  but  found  no  rest.  He 
tried  Drysdale.  That  hero  was  lying  on  his  back  on  his  sofa 
playing  with  Jack,  and  only  increased  Tom's  thirst  and  soured 
his  temper  by  the  viciousness  of  his  remarks  on  boating,  and 
every  thing  and  person  connected  therewith  ;  above  all,  on 
Miller,  who  had  just  come  up,  had  steered  them  the  day  before, 
and  pronounced  the  crew  generally,  and  Drysdale  in  particular, 
"not  half  trained." 

Blake's  oak  was  sported,  as  usual.  Tom  looked  in  at  the 
captain's  door,  but  found  him  hard  at  work  reading,  and  so  car- 
ried himself  off ;  and,  after  a  vain  hunt  after  others  of  the 
crew,  and  even  trying  to  sit  down  and  read,  first  a  novel,  then 
a  play  of  Shakspeare,  with  no  success  whatever,  wandered 
away. out  of  the  college,  and  found  himself  in  five  minutes,  by 
a  uatural  and  irresistible  attraction,  on  the  university  barge. 

There  were  half  a  dozeu  men  or  so  reading  the  papers,  and 
a  group  or  two  discussing  the  coming  races.  Amongst  other 
things,  the  chances  of  St.  Ambrose's  making  a  bump  the 
first  night  were  weighed.  Every  one  joined  in  praising  the 
stroke,  but  there  were  great  doubts  whether  the  crew  could 
live  up  to  it.  Tom  carried  himself  on  to  the  top  of  the  barge 
to  get  out  of  hearing,  for  listening  made  his  heart  beat  and  his 
throat  dryer  than  ever.  He  stood  on  the  top  and  looked  right 
away  down  to  the  Gut,  the  strong  wind  blowing  his  gown 
about.  Not  even  a  pair  oar  was  to  be  seen ;  the  great  event  of 


146  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  evening  made  the  river  a  solitude  at  this  time  of  day. 
Only  one  or  two  skiffs  were  coming  home,  impelled  by  reading 
men,  who  took  their  constitutionals  on  the  water,  and  were 
coming  in  to  be  in  time  for  afternoon  chapel.  The  fastest  and 
best  of  these  soon  came  near  enough  for  Tom  to  recognize 
Hardy's  stroke :  so  he  left  the  barge  and  went  down  to  meet 
the  servitor  at  his  landing,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  St. 
Ambrose  dressing-room. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  feel  for  the  race  to-night?"  said  Hardy, 
as  he  dried  his  neck  and  face,  which  he  had  been  sluicing  with 
cold  water,  looking  as  hard  and  bright  as  a  racer  on  Derby 
day. 

"  Oh,  wretched !  I'm  afraid  I  shall  break  down,"  said  Tom, 
and  poured  out  some  of  his  doubts  and  miseries.  Hardy  soon 
comforted  him  greatly ;  and  by  the  time  they  were  half  across 
Christchurch  Meadow  he  was  quite  in  heart  again,  for  he  knew 
how  well  Hardy  understood  lowing,  and  what  a  sound  judge 
he  was,  and  it  was  therefore  cheering  to  hear  that  he  thought 
they  were  certainly  the  second  best,  if  not  the  best,  boat  on  the 
river,  and  that  they  would  be  sure  to  make  some  bumps  unless 
they  had  accidents. 

"Bu»t  that's  just  what  I  fear  so,"  said  Tom.  "I'm  afraid  I 
shall  make  some  awful  blunder." 

"  Not  you  !  "  said  Hardy ;  "  only  remember ;  don't  you  fancy 
you  can  pull  the  boat  by  yourself,  and  go  trying  to  do  it.  That's 
where  young  oars  fail.  If  you  keep  thorough  good  time  you'll 
be  pretty  sure  to  be  doing  your  share  of  work.  Time  is  every 
thing,  almost." 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  think  of  that,"  said  Tom.  And  they  entered 
St.  Ambrose  just  as  the  chapel  bell  was  going  down,  and  he 
went  to  chapel  and  then  to  hall,  sitting  by  and  talking  for 
companionship  while  the  rest  dined. 

And  so  at  last  the  time  slipped  away,  and  the  captain  and 
Miller  mustered  them  at  the  gates  and  walked  off  to  the  boats. 
A  dozen  other  crews  were  making  their  way  in  the  same  di- 
rection, and  half  the  undergraduates  of  Oxford  streamed  along 
with  them.  The  banks  of  the  river  were  crowded ;  and  the 
punts  plied  rapidly  backwards  and  forwards,  carrying  loads  of 
men  over  to  the  Berkshire  side.  The  University  barge,  and 
all  the  other  barges,  were  decked  with  flags,  and  the  band  was 
playing  lively  airs  as  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  reached  the  scene 
of  action. 

No  time  was  lost  in  the  dressing-room,  and  in  two  minutes 
they  were  all  standing  in  flannel  trousers  and  silk  jerseys  at  the 
landing-place. 


THE  FIRST  BUMP.  147 

"  You  had  better  keep  your  jackets  on,"  said  the  captain;  "we 
sha'n't  be  off  yet." 

"  There  goes  Brazen-nose." 

«« They  look  like-  work ;  don't  they  ?  " 

"  The  black  and  yellow  seems  to  slip  along  so  fast.  They've 
no  end  of  good  colors.  I  wish  our  new  boat  was  black." 

"  Hang  her  colors,  if  she's  only  stiff  in  the  back,  and  don't 
dip." 

*;  Well,  she  didn't  dip  yesterday.  At  least,  the  men  on  the 
bank  said  so." 

"  There  go  Balliol  and  Oriel  and  University." 

"  By  Jove,  we  shall  be  late  1  Where's  Miller  ?  " 

"  In  the  shed  getting  the  boat  out.     Look,  here's  Exeter." 

The  talk  of  the  crew  was  silenced  for  the  moment  as  every 
man  looked  eagerly  at  the  Exeter  boat.  The  captain  nodded  to 
Jervis  with  a  grim  smile  as  they  paddled  gently  by. 

Then  the  talk  began  again. 

"  How  do  you  think  she  goes  ?  " 

"  Not  so  badly.  They're  very  strong  in  the  middle  of  the 
boat." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  it's  all  lumber." 

"  You'll  see.  They're  better  trained  than  we  are.  They  look 
as  fine  as  stars." 

"  So  they  ought.  They've  pulled  seven  miles  to  our  five  for 
the  last  month,  I'm  sure." 

"  Then  we  sha'n't  bump  them." 

«  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  that  the  value  of  products  consists  in  the 
quantity  of  labor  which  goes  to  produce  them  ?  Product,  pace 
over  course  from  Iffley  up.  Labor  expended,  Exeter,  7 ;  St. 
Ambrose,  5.  You  see  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  we 
should  bump  them. — Q.E.D." 

"  What  moonshine !  as  if  ten  miles  behind  their  stroke  are 
worth  two  behind  Jervis  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it  isn't  rny  moonshine  ;  you  must  settle  the 
matter  with  the  philosophers.  I  only  apply  a  universal  law  to 
a  particular  case." 

Tom,  unconscious  of  the  pearls  of  economic  lore  which  were 
being  poured  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  crew,  was  watching  the 
Exeter  eight  as  it  glided  away  towards  the  Cherwell.  He  thought 
they  seemed  to  keep  horribly  good  time. 

"  Holloa,  Drysdale  !  look  ;  there's  Jack  going  across  in  one  of 
the  punts." 

"  Of  course  he  is.  You  don't  suppose  he  wouldn't  go  down 
to  see  the  race." 


148  TOM  BROWN  At  OXFORD. 

"  Why  won't  Miller  let  us  start  ?  Almost  all  the  boats  are 
off." 

"There's  plenty  of  time.  We  may  just  as  well  be  up  here  aa 
dawdling  about  the  bank  at  Iffley. 

"  We  sha'n't  go  down  till  the  last ;  Miller  never  iet3  us  get 
out  down  below." 

"  Well,  come ;  here's  the  boat,  at  last." 

The  new  boat  now  emerged  from  its  shed,  guided  steadily  to 
where  they  were  standing  by  Miller  and  a  waterman.  Then 
the  coxswain  got  out  and  called  for  bow,  who  stepped  for- 
ward. 

"  Mind  how  you  step,  now ;  there  are  no  bottom  boards,  re- 
member," said  Miller. 

"  Shall  I  take  my  jacket  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  had  better  all  go  down  in  jackets  in  this  wind. 
I've  sent  a  man  down  to  bring  them  back.  Now,  two." 

"Aye,  aye!  "  said  Drysdale,  stepping  forward.  Then  came 
Tom's  turn,  and  soon  the  boat  was  manned. 

"Now,"  said  Miller,  taking  his  place,  "are  all  your  stretchers 
right?" 

"I  should  like  a  little  more  grease  for  my  rollocks." 

"  I'm  taking  some  down ;  we'll  put  it  on  down  below.  Are 
you  all  right?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  push  her  off — gently." 

The  St.  Ambrose  boat  was  almost  the  last,  so  there  were  no 
punts  in  the  way,  or  other  obstructions  ;  and  they  swung 
steadily  down  past  the  University  barge,  the  top  of  which  wa.s 
already  covered  with  spectators.  Every  man  in  the  boat  felt 
as  if  the  eyes  of  Europe  were  on  him,  and  pulled  in  his  very 
best  form.  Small  groups  of  gownsmen  were  scattered  along 
the  bank  of  Christchurch  meadow,  chiefly  dons,  who  were  really 
interested  in  the  races,  but,  at  that  time  of  day,  seldom  liked 
?,o  display  enthusiasm  enough  to  cross  the  water  and  go  down 
to  the  starting-place.  These  sombre  groups  were  lightened  up 
nere  and  there  by  the  dresses  of  a  few  ladies,  who  were  walking 
up  and  down,  and  watching  the  boats.  At  the  mouth  of  the 
Cherwell  were  moored  two  punts,  in  which  reclined  at  their 
ease  some  dozen  young  gentlemen,  smoking;  several  of  these 
were  friends  of  Drysdale,  and  hailed  him  as  the  boat  passed 
them. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  to  be  here !  "  he  grumbled,  in  an  under- 
tone, casting  an  envious  glance  at  the  points  in  their  comfort- 
able berth,  up  under  the  banks,  and  out  of  the  wind.  "  I  sr.y, 
Brown,  don't  you  wish  we  were  well  past  this  on  the  way 
upV  ~"~" 


THE  FIRST  SUMP.  149 

"  Silence  in  the  bows  !  "  shouted  Miller. 

"You  devil,  how  I  hate  you!"  growled  Drysdale,  half  in 
jest  nnd  half  in  earnest,  as  they  sped  along  under  the  willows. 

Tom  got  more  comfortable  at  every  stroke,  and  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  Gut  began  to  hope  that  he  should  not  have  a 
fit,  or  lose  all  his  strength  just  it  the  start,  or  cut  a  crab,  or 
come  to  some  other  unutterable  grief,  the  fear  of  which  had 
been  haunting  him  all  day. 

"  Here  they  are  at  last  I — come  along  now — keep  up  with 
them,"  said  Hardy  to  Grey,  as  the  boat  neared  the  Gut ;  and 
the  two  who  had  been  waiting  on  the  bank,  trotted  along 
downwards,  Hardy  watching  the  crew,  and  Grey  watching 
him. 

"  Hardy,  how  eager  you  look ! " 

"  I'd  give  twenty  pounds  to  be  going  to  pull  in  the  race." 

Grey  shambled  on  in  silence  by  the  side  of  his  big  friend,  and 
wished  he  could  understand  what  it  was  that  moved  him  so. 

As  the  boat  shot  into  the  Gut  from  under  the  cover  of  the 
Oxfordshire  bank,  the  wind  caught  the  bows. 

"  Feather  high,  now,"  shouted  Miller ;  and  then  added  in  a 
low  voice  to  the  captain,  "  It  will '  o  ticklish  work  starting  in 
this  wind." 

"Just  as  bad  for  all  the  other  bo^ts,"  answered  the  captain. 

"  Well  said,  old  philosopher  !  "  said  Miller.  "  It's  a  com- 
fort to  steer  you  ;  you  never  make  a  fellow  nervous.  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  felt  nervous  yourself,  now  ?  " 

"  Can't  say,"  said  the  captain.  "  Here's  our  post ;  we  may 
as  well  turn." 

"  Easy,  bow  side — now,  two  and  four,  pull  her  round — back 
water,  seven  and  five !  "  shouted  the  coxswain  ;  and  the  boat's 
head  swung  round,  and  two  or  three  strokes  took  into  the 
bank. 

Jack  instantly  made  a  convulsive  attempt  to  board,  but  was 
sternly  repulsed,  and  tumbled  backwards  into  the  water. 

Hark ! — the  first  gun.  The  report  sent  Tom's  heart  into  his 
mouth  again.  Several  of  the  boats  pushed  off  at  once  into  the 
stream  ;  and  the  crowds  of  men  on  the  bank  began  to  be  agi- 
tated, as  it  were,  by  the  shadow  of  the  coming  excitement. 
The  St.  Ambrose  fingered  their  oars,  put  a  last  dash  of  grease 
on  their  rollocks,  and  settled  their  feet  against  the  stretchers. 

"  Shall  we  push  her  off  ?  "  asked  bow. 

"  No ;  I  can  give  you  another  minute,"  said  Miller,  who  was 
sitting,  watch  in  hand,  in  the  stern ;  "  only  be  smart  when  I 
give  the  word." 

The  captain  turned  on  his  seat,  and  looked  up  the  boat.    His 


150  TOJf  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

face  was  quiet,  but  full  of  confidence,  which  seemed  to  pass 
from  him  into  the  crew.  Tom  felt  calmer  and  stronger,  as  he 
met  his  eye.  "  Now  mind,  boys,  don't  quicken,"  he  said, 
cheerily ;  "  four  short  strokes  to  get  way  on  her,  and  then 
steady.  Here,  pass  up  the  lemon." 

And  he  took  a  sliced  lemon  out  of  his  pocket,  put  a  small 
piece  in  his  own  mouth,  and  then  handed  it  to  Blake,  who 
followed  his  example,  and  passed  it  on.  Each  man  took  a 
piece ;  and  just  as  bow  had  secured  the  end,  Miller  called 
out, — 

"  Now,  jackets  off,  and  get  her  head  out  steadily." 

The  jackets  were  thrown  on  shore,  and  gathered  up  by  the 
boatman  in  attendance.  The  crew  poised  their  oars,  No.  2 
pushing  out  her  head,  and  the  captain  doing  the  same  for  the 
stern.  Miller  took  the  starting-rope  in  his  hand. 

"  How  the  wind  catches  her  stern,"  he  said ;  "  here,  pay  out 
the  rope  one  of  you.  No  not  you — some  fellow  with  a  strong 
hand.  Yes,  you'll  do,"  he  went  on,  as  Hardy  stepped  down  the 
bank  and  took  hold  of  the  rope ;  "  let  me  have  it  foot  by  foot 
as  I  want  it.  Not  too  quick ;  make  the  most  of  it — that'll  do. 
Two  and  three,  just  dip  your  oars  in  to  give  her  way." 

The  rope  paid  out  steadily,  and  the  boat  settled  to  her  place. 
But  now  the  wind  rose  again,  and  the  stern  drifted  in  towards 
the  bank. 

"  You  must  back  her  a  bit,  Miller,  and  keep  her  a  little  fur- 
ther out  or  our  oars  on  stroke  side  will  catch  the  bank." 

"  So  I  see ;  curse  the  wind.  Back  her,  one  stroke  all.  Back 
her,  I  say !  "  shouted  Miller. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  a  crew  to  back  her  an  inch  just 
now,  particularly  as  there  are  in  her  two  men  who  have  never 
rowed  a  race  before,  except  in  the  torpids,  and  one  who  has 
never  rowed  a  race  in  his  life. 

However,  back  she  comes;  the  starting  rope  slackens  in 
Miller's  left  hand,  and  the  stroke,  unshipping  his  oar,  pushes 
the  stem  gently  out  again. 

There  goes  the  second  gun !  one  short  minute  more,  and  we 
are  off.  Short  minute,  indeed !  you  wouldn't  say  so  if  you 
were  in  the  bor.t,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth  and  trembling 
all  over  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Those  sixty  seconds  before 
starting  gun  in  your  first  race — why,  they  are  a  little  life- 
time. 

"  By  Jove,  we  are  drifting  in  again,"  said  Miller,  in  horror. 
The  captain  looked  grim  but  said  nothing ;  it  was  too  late  now 
for  him  to  be  unshipping  again.  "  Here,  catch  hold  of  the 
long  boat-hook,  and  fend  her  off." 


THE  FIRST  BUMP. 

Hardy,  to  whom  this  was  addressed,  seized  the  boat-hook, 
And,  standing  with  one  foot  in  the  water,  pressed  the  end  oi 
the  boat-hook  against  the  gunwale,  at  the  full  stretch  of  his 
arm,  and  so,  by  main  force,  kept  the  stern  out.  There  was 
just  room  for  stroke  oars  to  dip,  and  that  was  all.  The  start- 
ing rope  was  as  taut  as  a  harp-string ;  will  Miller's  left  hand 
hold  out  ? 

It  is  an  awful  moment.  But  the  coxswain,  though  Almost 
dragged  backwards  off  his  seat,  is  equal  to  the  occasion.  He 
holds  his  watch  in  his  right  hand  with  the  tiller  rope. 

"  Eight  seconds  more  only.  Look  out  for  the  flash.  Re- 
member, all  eyes  in  the  boat." 

There  it  comes,  at  last — the  flash  of  the  starting  gun.  Long 
before  the  sound  of  the  report  can  roll  up  the  river,  the  whole 
pent-up  life  and  energy  which  has  been  held  in  leash,  as  it  were, 
for  the  last  six  minutes,  is  loose,  and  breaks  away  with  a  bound 
and  a  dash  which  he  who  has  felt  it  will  remember  for  his  life, 
but  the  like  of  which,  will  he  ever  feel  again?  The  starting 
ropes  drop  from  the  coxswains'  hands,  the  oars  flash  into  the 
water,  and  gleam  on  the  feather,  the  spray  flies  from  them,  and 
the  boats  leap  forward. 

The  crowds  on  the  bank  scatter,  and  rush  along,  each  keep- 
ing as  near  as  may  be  to  its  own  boat.  Some  of  the  men  on  the 
towing-path,  some  on  the  very  edge  of,  often  in,  the  water; 
some  slightly  in  advance,  as  if  they  could  help  to  drag  their 
boat  forward ;  some  behind,  where  they  can  see  the  pulling 
better ;  but  all  at  full  speed,  in  wild  excitement,  and  shouting 
at  the  top  of  their  voices  to  those  on  whom  the  honor  of  the 
college  is  laid. 

"  Well  pulled,  all !  "  «  Pick  her  up  there,  five !  "  «  You're 
gaining  every  stroke !"  "Time  in  the  bows!"  " Bravo,  St. 
Ambrose ! " 

On  they  rush  by  the  side  of  the  boats,  jostling  one  another 
Stumbling,  struggling,  and  panting  along. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  along  the  bank  the  glorious,  mad- 
dening hurly-burly  extends,  and  rolls  up  the  side  of  the  stream. 

For  the  first  ten  strokes,  Tom  was  in  too  great  fear  of  mak- 
ing a  mistake  to  feel  or  hear  or  see.  His  whole  soul  was  glued 
to  the  back  of  the  man  before  him,  his  one  thought  to  keep 
time  and  get  his  strength  into  the  stroke.  But  as  the  crew 
settled  down  into  the  well-known  long  sweep,  what  we  may 
call  consciousness  returned ;  and,  while  every  muscle  in  his 
body  was  straining,  and  his  chest  heaved,  and  his  heart  leapt, 
every  nerve  seemed  to  be  gathering  new  life,  and  his  senses  to 
wake  into  unwonted  acuteness.  He  caught  the  scent  of  wild 


152  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

thyme  in  the  air,  and  found  room  in  his  brain  to  wonder  how 
it  could  have  got  there,  as  he  had  never  seen  the  plant  near  the 
river,  or  smelt  it  before.  Though  his  eye  never  wandered  from 
the  back  of  Diogenes,  he  seemed  to  see  all  things  at  once.  The 
boat  behind,  which  seemed  to  be  gaining  ; — it  was  all  he  could 
do  to  prevent  himself  from  quickening  on  the  stroke  as  he  fancied 
that ; — the  eager  face  of  Miller,  with  his  compressed  lips,  and 
eyes  fixed  so  earnestly  ahead  that  Tom  could  almost  feel  the 
glance  passing  over  his  right  shoulder ;  the  flying  banks  and 
the  shouting  crowd  ;  see  them  with  his  bodily  eyes  he  could 
not,  but  he  knew,  nevertheless,  that  Grey  had  been  upset  and 
nearly  rolled  down  the  bank  into  the  water  in  the  first  hundred 
yards,  that  Jack  was  bounding  and  scrambling  and  barking 
along  by  the  very  edge  of  the  stream;  above  all,  he  was  just 
as  well  aware  as  if  he  had  been  looking  at  it,  of  a  stalwart  form 
in  cap  and  gown,  bounding  along,  brandishing  the  long  boat- 
hook,  and  always  keeping  just  opposite  the  boat;  and  amid  all 
the  Babel  of  voices,  and  the  dash  and  pulse  of  the  stroke,  and 
the  laboring  of  his  own  breathing,  he  heard  Hardy's  voice  com- 
ing to  him  again  and  again,  and  clear  as  if  there  had  been  no 
other  sound  in  the  air,  "  steady,  two !  steady  !  well  pulled  ! 
steady,  steady."  The  voice  seemed  to  give  him  strength  and 
keep  "him  to  his  work.  And  what  work  it  was !  he  had  had 
many  a  hard  pull  in  the  last  six  weeks,  but  never  aught  like 
this. 

But  it  can't  last  forever ;  men's  muscles  are  not  steel,  or 
their  lungs  bulls'  hide,  and  hearts  can't  go  on  pumping  a  hundred 
miles  an  hour  long,  without  bursting.  The  St.  Ambrose  boat 
is  well  away  from  the  boat  behind,  there  is  a  great  gap  be- 
tween the  accompanying  crowds ;  and  now,  as  they  near  the 
Gut,  she  hangs  for  a  moment  or  two  in  hand,  though  the  roar 
from  the  bank  grows  louder  and  louder,  and  Tom  is  already 
aware  that  the  St.  Ambrose  crowd  is  melting  into  the  one 
ahead  of  them. 

"  We  must  be  close  to  Exeter ! "  The  thought  flashes  into 
him,  and,  it  would  seem  into  the  rest  of  the  crew  at  the  same 
moment ;  for,  all  at  once,  the  strain  seems  taken  off  their  arms 
again  ;  there  is  no  more  drag ;  she  springs  to  the  stroke  as  she 
did  at  the  start ;  and  Miller's  face,  which  had  darkened  for  a 
few  seconds,  lightens  up  again. 

Miller's  face  and  attitude  are  a  study.  Coiled  up  into  the 
smallest  possible  space,  his  chin  almost  resting  on  his  knees, 
his  hands  close  to  his  sides,  firmly  but  lightly  feeling  the  rud- 
der, as  a  good  horseman  handles  the  mouth  of  a  free-going 
hunter ;  if  a  coxswain  could  make  a  bump  by  his  own  exertions 


THE  FIRST  BUJfP.  153 

surely  he  will  do  it.  No  sudden  jerks  of  the  St.  Ambrose 
rudder  will  you  see,  watch  as  you  will  from  the  bank ;  the  boat 
never  hangs  through  fault  of  his,  but  easily  and  gracefully 
rounds  every  point.  "  You're  gaining !  you're  gaining !  "  he 
now  and  then  mutters  to  the  captain,  who  responds  with  a 
wink,  keeping  his  breath  for  other  matters.  Isn't  he  grand, 
the  captain,  as  he  comes  forward  like  lightning,  stroke  after 
stroke,  his  back  flat,  his  teeth  set,  his  whole  frame  working 
irom  the  hips  with  the  regularity  of  a  machine?  As  the  space 
still  narrows,  the  eyes  of  the  fiery  little  coxswain  flash  with 
excitement,  but  he  is  far  too  good  a  judge  to  hurry  the  final 
effort  before  the  victory  is  safe  in  his  grasp. 

The  two  crowds  are  mingled  now,  and  no  mistake  ;  and  the 
shouts  come  all  in  a  heap  over  the  water.  "  Now,  St.  Am- 
brose, six  strokes  more."  "Now,  Exeter,  you're  gaining;  pick 
her  up."  "  Mind  the  Gut,  Exeter."  "Bravo,  St.  Ambrose !  " 
The  water  rushes  by,  still  eddying  from  the  strokes  of  the  boat 
ahead.  Tom  fancies  now  he  can  hear  their  oars  and  the  work- 
ings of  their  rudder,  and  the  voice  of  their  coxswain.  In 
another  moment  both  boats  are  in  the  Gut,  and  a  perfect 
storm  of  shouts  reaches  them  from  the  crowd,  as  it  rushes 
madly  off  to  the  left  to  the  foot-bridge,  amidst  which  "  Oh, 
well  steered,  well  steered,  St.  Ambrose !  "  is  the  prevailing 
cry.  Then  Miller,  motionless  as  a  statue  till  now,  lifts  his 
right  hand  and  whirls  the  tassel  round  his  head.  "Give  it  her 
now,  boys ;  six  strokes  and  we're  into  them."  Old  Jervis  lays 
down  that  great  broad  back,  and  lashes  his  oar  through  the 
water  with  the  might  of  a  giant,  the  crew  catch  him  up  in 
another  stroke,  the  tight  new  boat  answers  to  the  spurt,  and 
Tom  feels  a  little  shock  behind  him,  and  then  a  grating  sound, 
as  Miller  shouts,  "  Unship  oars,  how  and  three ! "  and  the 
nose  of  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  glides  quietly  up  to  the  side 
of  the  Exeter,  till  it  touches  their  stroke  oar. 

"  Take  care  where  you're  coming  to."  It  is  the  coxswain 
of  the  bumped  boat  who  speaks. 

Tom  finds  himself  within  a  foot  or  too  of  him  when  he 
looks  round ;  and,  being  utterly  unable  to  contain  his  joy, 
and  yet  unwilling  to  exhibit  it  before  the  eyes  of  a  gallant 
rival,  turns  away  towards  the  shore,  and  begins  telegraphing 
to  Hardy. 

"  Now,  then,  what  are  you  at  there  in  the  bows  ?  Cast  her 
off,  quick.  Come,  look  alive !  Push  across  at  once  out  of  the 
way  of  the  other  boats." 

"  I  congratulate  you  Jervis,"  says  the  Exeter  stroke,  as  the 
St.  Ambrose  boat  shoots  past  him.  "  Do  it  again  next  race  and 
1  ahaVt  care." 


154  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  We  were  within  three  lengths  of  Brazen-noze  when  we 
bumped,"  says  the  all-observant  Miller,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  All  right,"  answers  the  captain ;  "  Brazen-nose  isn't  so 
strong  as  usual.  We  sha'n't  have  much  trouble  there,  but  a 
tough  job  up  above,  I  take  it." 

"  Brazen-nose  was  better  steered  than  Exeter." 

•'  They  muffed  it  in  the  Gut,  eh  ? "  said  the  captain.  « I 
thought  so  by  the  shouts." 

"  Yes,  we  were  pressing  them  a  little  down  beJow  and  then 
coxswain  kept  looking  over  his  shoulder.  He  was  in  the  Gut 
before  he  knew  it,  and  had  to  pull  his  left  hand  hard,  or  they 
would  have  fouled  the  Oxfordshire  corner.  That  stopped 
their  way,  and  in  we  went." 

"  Bravo !  and  how  well  we  started  too." 

"Yes,  thanks  to  that  Hardy.  It  was  touch  and  go  though  ; 
I  couldn't  have  held  the  rope  two  seconds  more." 

"  How  did  our  fellows  work  ?  She  dragged  a  good  d«al  be- 
low the  Gut." 

Miller  looked  somewhat  serious,  but  even  he  cannot  be  find- 
ing fault  just  now  ;  for  the  first  step  is  gained,  the  first  victory 
won  ;  and,  as  Homer  sometimes  nods,  so  Miller  relaxes  the 
sternness  of  his  rule.  The  crew,  as  soon  as  they  have  found 
their  voices  again  laugh  and  talk  and  answer  the  congratula- 
tions of  their  friends,  as  the  boat  slips  along  close  to  the  towing- 
path  on  the  Berks  side,  "  easy  all,"  almost  keeping  pace,  never- 
theless, with  the  lower  boats,  which  are  racing  up  under  the 
willows  on  the  Oxfordshire  side.  Jack,  after  one  or  two  feints, 
makes  a  frantic  bound  into  the  waters,  and  is  hauled  dripping 
into  the  boat  by  Drysdale,  unchid  by  Miller,  but  to  the  in- 
tense disgust  of  Diogenes,  whose  pantaloons  and  principles  are 
alike  outraged  by  the  proceeding.  He — the  Cato  of  the  oar — 
scorns  to  relax  the  strictness  of  his  code,  even  after  victory 
won.  Neither  word  nor  look  does  he  cast  to  the  exulting  St. 
Ambrosians  on  the  bank  ;  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  a  subdued 
chuckle  or  two,  alone  betray  that  though  an  oarsman  he  is 
mortal.  Already  he  revolves  in  his  mind  the  project  of  an 
early  walk  under  a  few  pea-coats,  not  being  quite  satisfied, 
(conscientious  old  boy  !)  that  he  tried  his  stretcher  enough  in 
that  final  spurt,  and  thinking  that  there  must  be  an  extra 
pound  of  flesh  on  him  somewhere  or  other  which  did  the  mis- 
chief. 

"  I  say,  Brown,"  said  Drysdale,  "  how  do  you  feel  ?  " 

a  All  right,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  never  felt  jollier  in  my  life." 

"  By  Jove,  though,  it  was  an  awful  grind  ;  didn't  you  wish 
yourself  well  out  of-  it  below  the  Gut  ? 


THE  FIRST  BUMP.  155 

"  No,  nor  you  either." 

"  Didn't  I  though  !  I  was  awfully  baked,  my  throat  is  like 
a  lime-kiln  yet.  What  did  you  think  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  about  keeping  time,  I  think,"  said  Tom,  laughing, 
"  but  I  can't  remember  much." 

"  I  only  kept  on  by  thinking  how  I  hated  those  devils  in  the 
Exeter  boat,  and  how  done  up  they  must  be,  and  hoping  their 
Number  2  felt  like  having  a  fit." 

At  this  moment  they  came  opposite  the  Cherwell.  The 
leading  boat  was  just  passing  the  winding-post,  off  the  Univer- 
sity barge,  and  the  band  struck  up  the  "  Conquering  Hero," 
with  a  crash.  And  while  a  mighty  sound  of  shouts,  murmurs, 
and  music  went  up  into  the  evening  sky,  Miller  shook  the  tiller- 
ropes  again,  the  captain  shouted,  "  Now  then,  pick  her  up," 
and  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  shot  up  between  the  swarming  banks 
at  racing  pace  to  her  landing-place,  the  lion  of  the  evening. 

Dear  readers  of  the  gentler  sex !  you,  I  know,  will  pardon 
the  enthusiasm  which  stirs  our  pulses,  now  in  sober  middle  age, 
as  we  call  up  again  the  memories  of  this  the  most  exciting 
sport  of  our  boyhood  (for  we  were  but  boys,  then,  after  all). 
You  will  pardon,  though  I  fear  hopelessly  unable  to  understand 
the  above  sketch  ;  your  sons  and  brothers  will  tell  you  it  could 
not  have  been  made  less  technical. 

For  you,  male  readers,  who  have  never  handled  an  oar, — 
what  shall  I  say  to  you?  You,  at  least,  I  hope,  in  some  way 
— in  other  contests  of  one  kind  or  another — have  felt  as  we 
felt,  and  have  striven  as  we  strove.  You  ought  to  understand 
and  sympathize  with  us  in  all  our  boating  memories.  Oh,  how 
fresh  and  sweet  they  are !  Above  all  that  one  of  the  gay  little 
Henley  town,  the  carriage-crowded  bridge,  the  noble  river  reach, 
the  giant  poplars,  which  mark  the  critical  point  of  the  course 
— the  roaring  column  of  "  undergrades,"  light  blue  and  dark 
purple,  Cantab  and  Oxonian  alike  and  yet  how  different, — hurl- 
ing along  together,  and  hiding  the  towing-path — the  clang  of 
'Henley  church-bells — the  cheering,  the  waving  of  embroidered 
handkerchiefs,  and  glancing  of  bright  eyes,  the  ill-concealed 
pride  of  fathers,  the  open  delight  and  exultation  of  mothers  and 
sisters — the  levee  in  the  town-hall  when  the  race  was  rowed, 
the  great  cup  full  of  champague  (inn-champagne,  but  we  were 
not  critical) — the  chops,  the  steaks,  the  bitter  beer — but  we  run 
into  anti-climax — remember,  we  were  boys  then,  and  bear  with 
us  if  you  cannot  sympathize. 

And  you,  old  companions,  9/xw'Tcu  benchers  (of  the  gallant 
eight-oar),  now  seldom  met,  but  never-forgotten,  lairds,  squires, 
soldiers,  merchants,  lawyers,  grave  J.  P.'s,  graver  clergymen, 


156  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

gravest  bishops  (for  of  two  bishops  at  least  does  our  brother- 
hood boast),  I  turn  for  a  moment  from  my  task,  to  reach  to 
you  the  right  hand  of  fellowship  from  these  pages,  and 
empty  this  solemn  pewter — trophy  of  hard-won  victory — to 
your  health  and  happiness. 

Surely,  none  the   worse  Christians  and  citizens  are  ye  for 
your  involuntary  failing  of  muscularity ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OP  IT. 

IT  was  on  a  Saturday  that  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  made  the 
first  bump,  described  in  our  last  chapter.  On  the  next  Satur- 
day, the  day-week  after  the  first  success,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  our  hero  was  at  the  door  of  Hardy's  rooms.  He  just 
stopped  for  one  moment  outside,  with  his  hand  on  the  lock, 
looking  a  little  puzzled,  but  withal  pleased,  and  then  opened 
the  door  and  entered.  The  little  estrangement  which  there 
had  been  between  them  for  some  weeks,  had  passed  away  since 
the  races  had  begun.  Hardy  had  thrown  himself  into  the 
spirit  of  them  so  thoroughly,  that  he  had  not  only  regained  all 
his  hold  on  Tom,  but  had  warmed  up  the  whole  crew  in  his 
favor,  and  had  mollified  the  martinet  Miller  himself.  It  was 
he  who  had  managed  the  starting  rope  in  every  race,  and  his 
voice  from  the  towing  path  had  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
safe  guide  for  clapping  on  or  rowing  steady.  Even  Miller, 
autocrat  as  he  was,  had  come  to  listen  for  it,  in  confirmation 
of  his  own  judgment,  before  calling  on  the  crew  for  the  final 
effort. 

So  Tom  had  recovered  his  old  footing  in  the  servitor's 
rooms ;  and,  when  he  entered  on  the  night  in  Question,  did  so 
with  the  bearing  of  an  intimate  friend.  Hardy  s  tea  commons 
were  on  one  end  of  the  table  as  usual,  and  he  was  sitting  at 
the  other  poring  over  a  book.  Tom  marched  straight  up  to 
him,  and  leant  over  his  shoulder, 

"What,  here  you  are  at  the  perpetual  grind,"  he  said. 
"Come,  shut  up,  and  give  me  some  tea;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Hardy  looked  up  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Are  you  up  to  a  cup  of  tea  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  look  here,  I  was 
just  reminded  of  you  fellows.  Shall  I  construe  for  you  ?  " 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  open  page  of  the  book  he 


A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  157 

was  reading.     It  was  the  Knights  of  Aristophanes,  and  Tom, 
leaning  over  his  shoulder,  read, — 

"  Kdra  KaJBtfov  /*aXaws  iva  fj.^  rplfti^  rt\v  Iv  SaXa/«>%"  etc. 

After  meditating  a  moment,  he  burst  out.  "You  hard- 
hearted  old  ruffian  !  I  come  here  for  sympathy,  and  the  first 
thing  you  do  is  to  poke  fun  at  me  out  of  your  wretched  classics! 
I've  a  good  mind  to  clear  out,  and  not  do  my  errand." 

"What's  a  man  to  do?"  said  Hardy.  "I  hold  that  it's 
always  better  to  laugh  at  fortune.  What's  the  use  of  repin- 
ing? You  have  done  famously,  and  second  is  a  capital  place 
on  the  river." 

"  Second  be  hanged  !  "  said  Tom.     "  We  mean  to  be  first." 

"Well,  I  hope  we  may!  "  said  Hardy.  "I  can  tell  you  no- 
body felt  it  more  than  1 — not  even  old  Diogenes — when  you 
didn't  make  your  bump  to-night." 

"  Now  you  talk  like  a  man,  and  a  Saint  Ambrosian,"  said 
Tom.  "  But  what  do  you  think  ?  Shall  we  ever  catch  them  ?  " 
and,  so  saying,  he  retired  to  a  chair  opposite  the  tea-things. 

"  No,"  said  Hardy ;  "  I  don't  think  we  ever  shall.  I'm  very 
sorry  to  say  it,  but  they  are  an  uncommonly  strong  lot,  and 
we  have  a  weak  place  or  two  in  our  crew.  I  don't  think  we 
can  do  more  than  we  did  to-night — at  least  with  the  present 
crew." 

"  But  if  we  could  get  a  little  more  strength  we  might  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.     Jervis'  stroke  is  worth  two  of  theirs, 
very  little  more  powder  would  do  it." 

"  Then  we  must  have  a  little  more  powder." 

"  Ay,  but  how  are  we  to  get  it  ?     Who  can  you  put  in  ?  " 

"  You  ! "  said  Tom,  sitting  up.  "  There,  now,  that's  just 
what  I  am  come  about.  Drysdale  is  to  go  out.  Will  you  pull 
next  race  ?  They  all  want  you  to  row." 

"Do  they?"  said  Hardy,  quietly  (but  Tom  could  see  that 
his  eyes  sparkled  at  the  notion,  though  he  was  too  proud  to 
show  how  much  he  was  pleased)  ;  "  then  they  had  better  come 
and  ask  me  themselves." 

"  Well,  you  cantankerous  old  party,  they're  coming,  I  can  tell 
you !  "  said  Tom,  in  great  delight.  "  The  captain  just  sent  me 
on  to  break  ground,  and  will  be  here  directly  himself.  I  say 
now,  Hardy,"  he  went  on,  "  don't  you  say  no.  I've  set  my 
heart  upon  it.  I'm  sure  we  shall  bump  them  if  you  pull." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Hardy,  getting  up,  and  beginning 
to  make  tea,  to  conceal  the  excitement  he  was  in  at  the  idea  of 
rowing  ;  "  you  see  I'm  not  in  training." 


158  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Gammon,"  said  Tom,  "  you're  always  in  training,  and  you 
know  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Hardy,  "  I  can't  be  in  worse  than  Drysdale. 
He  has  been  of  no  use  above  the  Gut  this  last  three  nights." 

"  That's  just  what  Miller  says,"  said  Tom,  "  and  here  comes 
the  captain."  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  while  he  spoke, 
and  Jervis  and  Miller  entered. 

Tom  was  in  a  dreadful  fidget  for  the  next  twenty  minutes, 
and  may  best  be  compared  to  an  enthusiastic  envoy  negotiat- 
ing a  commercial  treaty,  and  suddenly  finding  his  action  im- 
peded by  the  arrival  of  his  principals.  Miller  was  very  civil, 
but  not  pressing ;  he  seemed  to  have  come  more  with  a  view 
of  talking  over  the  present  state  of  things,  and  consulting  upon 
them,  than  of  enlisting  a  recruit.  Hardy  met  kim  more  than 
half-way,  and  speculated  on  all  sorts  of  possible  issues,  with- 
out a  hint  of  volunteering  himself.  But  presently  Jervis,  who 
did  not  understand  finessing,  broke  in,  and  asked  Hardy,  point- 
blank,  to  pull  in  the  next  race ;  and  when  he  pleaded  want  of 
training,  overruled  him  at  once,  by  saying  that  there  was  no 
better  training  than  sculling.  So  in  half  an  hour  all  was  set- 
tled. Hardy  was  to  pull  five  in  the  next  race,  Diogenes  was 
to  take  Blake's  place  at  No.  7,  and  Blake  to  take  Drysdale's 
oar  at  No.  2.  The  whole  crew  were  to  go  for  a  long  training 
walk  the  next  day,  Sunday,  in  the  afternoon  ;  to  go  down  to 
Abingdon  on  Monday,  just  to  get  into  swing  in  their  new 
places,  and  then  on  Tuesday  to  abide  the  fate  of  war.  They 
had  half  an  hour's  pleasant  talk  over  Hardy's  tea,  and  then 
separated. 

"  I  always  told  you  he  was  our  man,"  said  the  captain  to 
Miller,  as  they  walked  together  to  the  gates ;  "  we  want 
strength,  and  he  is  as  strong  as  a  horse.  You  must  have  seen 
him  sculling  yourself.  There  isn't  his  match  on  the  river  to 
my  mind." 

"  Yes,  I  think  he'll  do,"  replied  Miller ;  "  at  any  rate,  he 
can't  be  worse  than  Drysdale." 

As  for  Tom  and  Hardy,  it  may  safely  be  said  that  no  two 
men  in  Oxford  went  to  bed  in  better  spirits  that  Saturday  night 
than  they  two. 

And  now  to  explain  how  it  came  about  that  Hardy  was  wanted. 
Fortune  had  smiled  upon  the  St.  Ambrosians  in  the  two  races 
which  succeeded  the  one  in  which  they  had  bumped  Exeter. 
They  had  risen  two  more  places  without  any  very  great  trouble. 
Of  course,  the  constituencies  on  the  bank,  magnified  their 
powers  and  doings.  There  never  was  such  a  crew,  they  were 
quite  safe  to  be  head  of  the  river,  nothing  could  live  against 


A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CHEW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.    169 

their  pace.  So  the  young  oars  in  the  boat  swallowed  all  they 
heard,  thought  themselves  the  finest  fellows  going,  took  less  and 
less  pains  to  keep  up  their  conditions,  and  when  they  got  out 
of  earshot  of  Jervis  and  Diogenes,  were  ready  to  bet  two  to  one 
that  they  would  bump  Oriel  the  next  night,  and  keep  easily 
head  of  the  river  for  the  rest  of  the  races. 

Saturday  night  came,  and  brought  with  it  a  most  useful 
though  unpalatable  lesson  to  the  St  Ambrosians.  The  Oriel 
!>oat  was  manned  chiefly  by  old  oars,  seasoned  in  many  a  race, 
and  not  liable  to  panic  when  hard  pressed.  They  had  a  fair 
though  not  a  first-rate  stroke,  and  a  good  coxswain ;  experts  re- 
marked that  they  were  rather  too  heavy  for  their  boat,  and  that 
she  dipped  a  little  when  they  put  on  anything  like  a  severe 
spurt ;  but  on  the  whole  they  were  by  no  means  the  sort  of  crew 
you  could  just  run  into  hand  over  hand.  So  Miller  and  Dio- 
genes preached,  and  so  the  Ambrosians  found  out  to  their  cost. 

They  had  the  pace  of  the  other  boat,  and  gained  as  usual 
a  boat's  length  before  the  Gut ;  but,  first  those  two  fatal  corners 
were  passed,  and  then  other  well-remembered  spots  where  former 
bumps  had  been  made,  and  still  Miller  made  no  sign  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  looked  gloomy  and  savage.  The  St.  Ambrosian  shouts 
from  the  shore,  too,  changed  from  the  usual  exultant  peals 
into  something  like  a  quiver  of  consternation,  while  the  air  was 
rent  with  the  name  and  laudations  of  "  little  Oriel." 

Long  before  the  Cherwell  Drysdale  was  completely  baked 
(he  had  played  truant  the  day  before  and  dined  at  the  Weirs, 
where  he  had  imbibed  much  dubious  hock),  but  he  from  old  habit 
managed  to  keep  time.  Tom  and  the  other  young  oars  got 
flurried,  and  quickened ;  the  boat  dragged,  there  was  no  life  left 
in  her,  and,  though  they  managed  just  to  hold  their  first 
advantage,  could  not  put  her  a  foot  nearer  the  stern  of  the  Oriel 
boat  which  glided  past  the  winning-post  a  clear  boat's  length 
ahead  of  her  pursuers,  and  with  a  crew  much  less  distressed. 

Such  races  must  tell  on  strokes ;  and  even  Jervis,  who  had 
pulled  magnificently  throughout,  was  very  much  done  at  the 
close,  and  leaned  over  his  oar  with  a  swimming  in  his  head 
and  an  approach  to  faintness,  and  was  scarcely  able  to  see 
for  a  minute  or  so.  Miller's  indignation  knew  no  bounds, 
but  he  bottled  it  up  till  he  had  manoauvred  the  crew  into  their 
dressing-room  by  themselves,  Jervis  having  stopped  below. 
Then  he  let  out,  and  did  not  spare  them.  "  They  would  kill 
their  captain,  whose  little  finger  was  worth  the  whole  of  them ; 
they  were  disgracing  the  college ;  three  or  four  of  them  had 
either  heart  nor  head,  nor  pluck."  They  all  felt  that  this  was  un- 
just, for  after  all  had  they  not  brought  the  boat  up  to  the  second 


16(/  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

place  ?  Poor  Diogenes  sat  in  a  corner  and  groaned ;  he  forgot 
to  prefix  "  old  fellow  "  to  the  few  obervations  he  made.  Blake 
had  great  difficulty  in  adjusting  his  necktie  before  the  glass ;  he 
merely  remarked  in  a  pause  of  the  objurgation, "  In  faith,  cox- 
swain, these  be  very  bitter  words."  Tom  and  most  of  the  others 
were  too  much  out  of  heart  to  resist ;  but  at  last  Drysdale  fired 
up— 

"  You've  no  right  to  be  so  savage  that  I  can  see,"  he  said, 
stopping  the  low  whistle  suddenly  in  which  he  was  indulging, 
as  he  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table ;  "  you  seem  to  think  No.  2 
the  weakest  out  of  several  weak  places  in  the  boat." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Miller. 

"  Then  this  honorable  member,"  said  Drysdale,  getting  off  the 
table,  "  seeing  that  his  humble  efforts  are  unappreciated,  thinks 
it  best  for  the  public  service  to  place  his  resignation  in  the 
the  hands  of  your  coxswninship." 

"  Which  my  coxswainship  is  graciously  pleased  to  accept," 
replied  Miller. 

"  Hurrah  for  a  roomy  punt  and  a  soft  cushion  next  racing 
night — it's  almost  worth  while  to  have  been  rowing  all  this  time, 
to  realize  the  sensations  I  shall  feel  when  1  see  you  fellows  pass- 
ing the  Cherwell  on  Tuesday." 

"  Suave  est,  it's  what  I'm  partial  to,  mart  magno,  in  the  last 
reach,  a  terra,  from  the  rowing-path,  alterius  magnum  spectare 
laborem,  to  witness  the  tortures  of  you  wretched  beggars  in 
the  boat.  I'm  obliged  to  translate  for  Drysdale,  who  never 
learned  Latin,"  said  Blake,  finishing  his  tie,  and  turning  to  the 
company.  There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Miller  was  chafing 
inwardly  and  running  over  in  his  mind  what  was  to  be  done  ; 
and  nobody  else  seemed  quite  to  know  what  ought  to  happen 
next  when  the  door  opened  and  Jervis  came  in. 

"  Congratulate  me,  my  captain,"  said  Drysdale ;  "  I'm  well 
out  of  it  at  last." 

Jervia  "pished  and  pshaw'd "  a  little  at  hearing  what  had 
happened,  but  his  presence  acted  like  oil  on  the  waters.  The 
moment  that  the  resignation  was  named,  Tom's  thoughts  had 
turned  to  Hardy.  Now  was  the  time — he  had  such  confidence 
in  the  man,  that  the  idea  of  getting  him  in  for  the  next  race  en- 
tirely changed  the  aspect  of  affairs  to  him,  and  made  him  feel 
as^'  bumptious"  again  as  he  had  done  in  the  morning.  So  with 
this  idea  in  his  head,  he  hung  about  till  the  captain  had  made 
his  toilet,  and  joined  himself  to  him  and  Miller  as  they  walked 
up. 

Well,  what  are  we  to  do  now?"  said  the  captain. 
"That's  just  what  you  have  to  settle,"  said  Miller;  "  you 


A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.    161 

have  been  up  all  the  term,  and  know  the  men's  pulling  better 
than  I." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  press  somebody  from  the  torpid — let 
me  see,  there's  Burton." 

"  He  rolls  like  a  porpoise,"  interrupted  Miller  positively ; 
"impossible." 

"  Stewart  might  do  then." 

"  Never  kept  time  for  three  strokes  in  his  life."  said  Miller. 

"Well,  there  are  no  better  men,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Then  we  may  lay  our  account  to  stopping  where  we  are,  if 
we  don't  even  lose  a  place,"  said  Miller. 

"  Dust  unto  dust,  what  must  be,  must ; 
If  you  can't  get  crumb,  you'd  best  eat  crust, 

said  the  captain. 

"  It's  all  very  well  talking  coolly  now,"  said  Miller,  "  but 
you'll  kill  yourself  trying  to  bump,  and  there  are  three  more 
nights." 

"  Hardy  would  row  if  you  asked  him,  I'm  sure,"  said  Tom. 

The  captain  looked  at  Miller,  who  shook  his  head.  "I don't 
think  it,"  he  said ;  "  I  take  him  to  be  a  shy  bird  that  won't 
come  to  everybody's  whistle.  We  might  have  had  him  two 
years  ago,  I  believe — I  wish  we  had." 

"  I  always  told  you  so,"  said  Jervis ;  "  at  any  rate,  let's  try 
him.  He  can  but  say  no,  and  I  don't  think  he  will,  for  you  see 
lie  has  been  at  the  starting-place  every  night,  and  as  keen  as  a 
freshman  all  the  time." 

"  I'm  sure  he  won't,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  know  he  would  give  any 
thing  to  pull." 

"You  had  better  go  to  his  rooms  and  sound  him,"  said  the 
captain  ;  "  Miller  and  I  will  follow  in  half  an  hour."  We  have 
already  heard  how  Tom's  mission  prospered. 

The  next  day,  at  a  few  minutes  before  two  o'clock,  the  St. 
Ambrose  crew,  including  Hardy,  with  Miller  (who  was  a  desper- 
ate and  indefatigable  pedestrian)  for  leader,  crossed  Magdalen 
Bridge.  At  five  they  returned  to  college,  having  done  a  little 
over  fifteen  miles,  fair  heel  and  toe  walking,  in  the  interval. 
The  afternoon  had  been  very  hot,  and  Miller  chuckled  to  the 
captain,  "  I  don't  think  there  will  be  much  trash  left  in  any  ot 
them  after  that.  That  fellow  Hardy  is  as  fine  as  a  race-horse, 
and,  did  you  see,  he  never  turned  a  hair  all  the  way." 

The  crew  dispersed  to  their  rooms,  delighted  with  the  per- 
formance now  that  it  was  over,  and  feeling  that  they  were 
much  the  better  for  it,  though  they  ail  declared  it  had  been 
harder  work  than  any  race  they  had  yet  pulled.  It  would  have 


162  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

done  a  trainer's  heart  good  to  have  seen  them,  some  twenty 
minutes  afterwards,  dropping  into  Hall  (where  they  were 
allowed  to  dine  on  Sundays,  on  the  joint),  fresh  from  cold 
baths,  and  looking  ruddy  and  clear,  and  hard  enough  for  any- 
thing. 

Again  on  Monday,  not  a  chance  was  lost.  The  St.  Ambrose 
boat  started  soon  after  one  o'clock  for  Abingdon.  They  swung 
steadily  down  the  whole  way,  and  back  again  to  Sandford 
without  a  single  spurt ;  Miller  generally  standing  in  the  stern, 
and  preaching  above  all  things  steadiness  and  time.  From 
Sandford  up,  they  were  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  men  or 
so,  who  ran  up  the  bank  watching  them.  The  struggle  for  the 
first  place  on  the  river  was  creating  great  excitement  in  the 
rowing  world,  and  these  were  some  of  the  most  keen  connois- 
seurs, who,  having  heard  that  St.  Ambrose  had  changed  a  man, 
were  on  the  look-out  to  satisfy  themselves  as  to  how  it  would 
work.  The  general  opinion  was  veering  round  in  favor  of 
Oriel;  changes  so  late  in  the  races,  and  at  such  a  critical 
moment,  were  looked  upon  as  very  damaging. 

Foremost  amongst  the  runners  on  the  bank  was  a  wiry  dark 
man,  with  sanguine  complexion,  who  went  with  a  peculiar  long, 
low  stride,  keeping  his  keen  eye  well  on  the  boat.  Just  above 
Kennington  Island,  Jervis,  noticing  this  particular  spectator 
for  the  first  time,  called  on  the  crew,  and,  quickening  his  stroke, 
took  them  up  the  reach  at  racing  pace.  As  they  lay  in  Iffley 
lock  the  dark  man  appeared  above  them,  and  exchanged  a  few 
words,  and  a  good  deal  of  dumb  show,  with  the  captain  and 
Miller,  and  then  disappeared. 

From  Iffley  up  they  went  steadily  again.  On  the  whole, 
Miller  seemed  to  be  in  very  good  spirits  in  the  dressing-room  ; 
he  thought  the  boat  trimmed  better,  and  went  better  than  she 
had  ever  done  before,  and  complimented  Blake  particularly  for 
the  ease  with  which  he  had  changed  sides.  They  all  went  up 
in  high  spirits,  calling  on  their  way  at  "  The  Choughs  "  for  one 
glass  of  old  ale  round,  which  Miller  was  graciously  pleased  to 
allow.  Tom  never  remembered  till  after  they  were  out  again, 
that  Hardy  had  never  been  there  before,  and  felt  embarrassed 
for  a  moment,  but  it  soon  passed  off.  A  moderate  dinner  and 
early  to  bed  finished  the  day,  and  Miller  was  justified  in  his 
parting  remark  to  the  captain,  "  Well,  if  we  don't  win  we  can 
comfort  ourselves  that  we  hav'n't  dropped  a  stitch  this  last  two 
days,  at  any  rate." 

Then  the  eventful  day  arose  which  Tom  and  many  another 
man  felt  was  to  make  or  mar  St.  Ambrose.  It  was  a  glorious 
early  summer  day,  without  a  cloud,  scarcely  a  breath  of  air 


A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.   163 

stirring.  "  We  shall  have  a  fair  start,  at  any  rate,"  was  the 
general  feeling.  We  have  already  seen  what  a  throat-drying, 
nervous  business,  the  morning  and  afternoon  of  a  race-day  is, 
and  must  not  go  over  the  same  ground  more  than  we  can  help ; 
so  we  will  imagine  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  down  at  the  starting- 
place,  lying  close  to  the  towing-path,  just  before  the  first  gun. 

There  is  a  much  greater  crowd  than  usual  opposite  the  two 
first  boats.  By  this  time  most  of  the  other  boats  have  found 
their  places,  for  there  is  not  much  chance  of  anything  very 
exciting  down  below;  so,  besides  the  men  of  Oriel  and  St. 
Ambrose  (who  muster  to-night  of  all  sorts,  the  fastest  of  the 
fast  and  slowest  of  the  slow  having  been  by  this  time  shamed 
into  something  like  enthusiasm),  many  of  other  colleges,  whose 
boats  have  no  chance  of  bumping  or  being  bumped,  flock  to 
the  point  of  attraction. 

"Do  you  make  out  what  the  change  is?  "  says  a  backer  of 
Oriel  to  his  friend  in  the  like  predicament. 

"Yes;  they've  got  a  new  No.  5;  don't  you  see?  and,  by 
George,  I  don't  like  his  looks,"  answered  his  friend ;  "  awfully 
long  and  strong  in  the  arm,  and  well  ribbed  up.  A  devilish 
awkward  customer.  I  shall  go  and  try  to  get  a  hedge." 

"  Pooh,"  says  the  other,  "  did  you  ever  know  one  man  win  a 
race?" 

"  Ay,  that  I  have,"  says  his  friend,  and  walks  off  towards  the 
Oriel  crowd  to  take  five  to  four  on  Oriel  in  half  sovereigns,  if 
he  can  get  it. 

Now  their  dark  friend  of  yesterday  comes  up  at  a  trot,  and 
pulls  up  close  to  the  captain,  with  whom  he  is  evidently  dear 
friends.  He  is  worth  looking  at,  being  coxswain  of  the  O.  U. 
B.,  the  best  steerer,  runner,  and  swimmer,  in  Oxford ;  amphib- 
ious himself,  and  sprung  from  an  amphibious  race.  His  own 
boat  is  in  no  danger,  so  he  has  left  her  to  take  care  of  herself. 
He  is  on  the  look-out  for  recruits  for  the  University  crew,  and 
no  recruiting  sergeant  has  a  sharper  eye  for  the  sort  of  stuff  he 
requires. 

"  What's  his  name  ?"  he  says  in  a  low  tone  to  Jervis,  giving 
a  jerk  with  his  head  towards  Hardy.  "  Where  did  you  get 
him?" 

"  Hardy,"  answers  the  captain  in  the  same  tone ;  "  it's  his 
first  night  in  the  boat." 

"  I  know  that,"  replies  the  coxswain  ;  "  I  never  saw  him  row 
before  yesterday.  He's  the  fellow  who  sculls  in  that  brown 
skiff;  isn't  he?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  think  he'll  do  ;  keep  your  eye  on  him." 

The  coxswain  nods  as  if  he  were  pretty  much  of  the  same 


164  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD 

mind,  and  examines  Hardy  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseut 
pretty  much  as  the  judge  at  an  agricultural  show  looks  at  the 
prize  bull.  Hardy  is  tightening  the  strap  of  his  stretcher,  and 
all-unconscious  of  the  compliments  which  are  being  paid  him. 
The  great  authority  seems  satisfied  with  his  inspection,  grins, 
rubs  his  hands,  and  trots  off  to  the  Oriel  boat  to  make  com- 
parisons. 

Just  as  the  first  gun  is  heard,  Grey  sidles  nervously  to  the 
front  of  the  crowd  as  if  he  were  doing  something  very  audacious, 
and  draws  Hardy's  attention,  exchanging  sympathizing  nods 
with  him,  but  saying  nothing,  for  he  knows  not  what  to  say, 
and  then  disappearing  again  in  the  crowd. 

" Hallo,  Drysdale,  is  that  you?"  says  Blake,  as  they  push 
off  from  the  shore.  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  take  it  easy 
in  a  punt." 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  Drysdale  ;  "  but  I  couldn't  keep  away, 
and  here  I  am.  I  shall  run  up  ;  and  mind,  if  I  see  you  within 
ten  feet,  and  cocksure  to  win.  I'll  give  a  view  holloa.  I'll  be 
bound  you  shall  hear  it." 

"  May  it  come  speedily,  said  Blake,  and  then  settled  him- 
self  in  his  seat. 

"Eyes  in  the  boat — mind  now,  steady  all,  watch  the  stroke 
and  don't  quicken." 

These  are  Miller's  last  words;  every  faculty  of  himself  and 
the  crew  being  now  devoted  to  getting  a  good  start.  This  is 
no  difficult  matter,  as  the  water  is  like  glass,  and  the  boat  lies 
lightly  on  it,  obeying  the  slightest  dip  of  the  oars  of  bow  and 
two,  who  just  feel  the  water  twice  or  thrice  in  the  last  minute. 
Then,  after  a  few  moments  of  breathless  hush  on  the  bank,  the 
last  gun  is  fired  and  they  are  off. 

The  same  scene  of  mad  excitement  ensues,  only  tenfold  more 
intense,  as  almost  the  whole  interest  of  the  races  is  to-night 
concentrated  on  the  two  head  boats  and  their  fate.  At  every 
gate  there  is  a  jam,  and  the  weaker  vessels  are  shoved  into  the 
ditches,  upset,  and  left  unnoticed.  The  most  active  men,  in- 
cluding the  O.  U.  B.  coxswain,  shun  the  gates  altogether,  and 
take  the  big  ditches  in  their  stride,  making  for  the  long  bridges, 
that  they  may  get  quietly  over  these  and  be  safe  for  the  best 
part  of  the  race.  They  know  that  the  critical  point  of  the 
struggle  will  be  near  the  finish. 

Both  boats  make  a  beautiful  start,  and  again  as  before  in  the 
first  dash  the  St.  Ambrose  pace  tells,  and  they  gain  their  boat's 
length  before  first  winds  fail ;  then  they  settle  down  for  a  long, 
steady  effort.  Both  crews  nre  rowing  comparatively  steady, 
reserving  themselves  for  the  tug  of  war  up  above.  Thus  they 


A  CHANGE  IN  THE  CREW,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.   165 

pass  the  Gut,  and  so  those  two  treacherous  corners,  the  scene 
of  countless  bumps,  into  the  wider  water  beyond,  up  under  the 
willows. 

Miller's  face  is  decidedly  hopeful ;  he  shows  no  sign,  indeed, 
but  you  can  see  that  he  is  not  the  same  man  as  he  was  at  this 
place  in  the  last  race.  He  feels  that  to-day  the  boat  is  full  of 
life,  and  that  he  can  call  on  his  crew  with  hopes  of  an  answer. 
His  well-trained  eye  also  detects  that,  while  both  crews  are  at 
full  stretch,  his  own,  instead  of  losing,  as  it  did  on  the  last 
night,  is  now  gaining  inch  by  inch  on  Oriel.  The  gain  is 
scarcely  perceptible  to  him  even ;  from  the  bank  it  is  quite  im- 
perceptible ;  but  there  it  is ;  he  is  surer  and  surer  of  it,  as  one 
after  another  the  willows  are  left  behind. 

And  now  comes  the  pinch.  The  Oriel  captain  is  beginning 
to  be  conscious  of  the  fact  which  has  been  dawning  on  Miller, 
but  will  not  acknowledge  it  to  himself,  and  as  his  coxswain 
turns  the  boat's  head  gently  across  the  stream,  and  makes  for 
the  Berkshire  side  and  the  goal,  now  full  in  view,  he  smiles 
grimly  as  he  quickens  his  stroke  ;  he  will  shake  off  these  light- 
heeled  gentiy  yet,  as  he  did  before. 

Miller  sees  the  move  in  a  moment,  and  signals  his  captain, 
and  the  next  stroke  St.  Ambrose  has  quickened  also  ;  and  now 
there  is  no  mistake  about  it,  St.  Ambrose  is  creeping  up  slowly 
but  surely.  The  boat's  length  lessens  to  forty  feet,  thirty 
feet ;  surely  and  steadily  lessens.  But  the  race  is  not  lost  yet ; 
thirty  feet  is  a  short  space  enough  to  look  at  on  the  water,  but 
a  good  bit  to  pick  up  foot  by  foot  in  the  last  two  hundred  yards 
of  a  desperate  struggle.  They  ai*e  over  under  the  Berkshire 
side  now,  and  there  stands  up  the  winning-post,  close  ahead, 
all  but  won.  The  distance  lessens  and  lessens  still,  but  the 
Oriel  crew  stick  steadily  and  gallantly  to  their  work,  and  will 
fight  every  inch  of  distance  to  the  last.  The  Orielites  on  the 
bank,  who  are  rushing  along,  sometimes  in  the  water,  some- 
times out,  hoarse,  furious,  madly  alternating  between  hope  and 
despair,  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  a  man  in  the  crew. 
Off  the  mouth  of  the  Cherwell  there  is  still  twenty  feet  be- 
tween them.  Another  minute,  and  it  will  be  over  one  way  or 
another.  Every  man  in  both  crews  is  now  doing  his  best,  and 
no  mistake  :  tell  me  which  boat  holds  the  most  men  who  can 
do  better  than  their  best  at  a  pinch,  who  will  risk  a  broken 
blood-vessel,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  it  will  end.  "  Hard  pound- 
ing, gentlemen,  let's  see  who  will  pound  longest,"  the  duke  is 
reported  to  have  said  at  Waterloo,  and  won.  "  Now,  Tummy, 
lad,  'tis  thou  or  I,"  Big  Ben  said  as  he  came  up  to  the  last 
round  of  his  hardest  fight,  and  won.  Is  there  a  man  of  that 


166  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOBD. 

temper  in  either  crew  to-night  ?  If  so,  now's  his  time.  Foi 
both  coxswains  have  called  on  their  men  for  the  last  effort ; 
Miller  is  whirling  the  tassel  of  his  right-hand  tiller  rope  round 
his  head,  like  a  wiry  little  lunatic ;  from  the  towing-path,  from 
Christchurch  Meadow,  from  the  rows  of  punts,  from  the 
clustered  tops  of  the  barges,  comes  a  roar  of  encouragement 
and  applause,  and  the  band,  unable  to  resist  the  impulse,  breaks 
with  a  crash  into  the  "  Jolly  Young  Waterman,"  playing  two 
bars  to  the  second.  A  bump  in  the  Gut  is  nothing — a  few 
partisans  on  the  towing-path  to  cheer  you,  already  out  of 
breath  ;  but  up  here  at  the  very  finish,  with  all  Oxford  look- 
ing on,  when  the  prize  is  the  headship  of  the  river ;  once  in  a 
generation  only  do  men  get  such  a  chance. 

Who  ever  saw  Jervis  not  up  to  his  work?  The  St.  Ambrose 
stroke  is  glorious.  Tom  had  an  atom  of  go  still  left  in  the 
very  back  of  his  head,  and  at  this  moment  he  heard  Drysdale's 
view  holloa  above  all  the  din ;  it  seemed  to  give  him  a  lift, 
and  other  men  besides  in  the  boat,  for  in  another  six  strokes 
the  gap  is  lessened  and  St.  Ambrose  has  crept  up  to  ten  feet, 
and  now  to  five  from  the  stern  of  Oriel.  Weeks  afterwards 
Hardy  confided  to  Tom  that  when  he  heard  that  view  halloa 
be  seemed  to  feel  the  muscles  of  his  arms  and  legs  turn  into 
steel,  and  did  more  work  in  the  last  twenty  strokes  than  in  any 
other  forty  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  race. 

Another  fifty  yards  and  Oriel  is  safe,  but  the  look  on  the 
captain's  face  is  so  ominous  that  their  coxswain  glances  over 
his  shoulder.  The  bow  of  St.  Ambrose  is  within  two  feet  of 
their  rudder.  It  is  a  moment  for  desperate  expedients.  He 
pulls  his  left  tiller  rope  suddenly,  thereby,  carrying  the  stern 
of  his  own  boat  out  of  the  line  of  the  St.  Ambrose,  and  calls 
on  his  crew  once  more ;  they  respond  gallantly  yet,  but  the 
rudder  is  against  them  for  a  moment,  and  the  boat  drags. 
St.  Ambrose  overlaps.  "A  bump,  a  bump,"  shout  the  St. 
Ambrosians  on  shore.  "  Row  on,  row  on,"  screams  Miller. 
He  has  not  yet  felt  the  electric  shock,  and  knows  he  will  miss 
his  bump  if  the  young  ones  slacken  for  a  moment.  A  young 
coxswain  would  have  gone  on  making  shots  at  the  stern  of  the 
Oriel  boat,  and  so  have  lost. 

A  bump  now  and  no  mistake ;  the  bow  of  the  St.  Ambrose 
boat  jams  the  oar  of  the  Oriel  stroke,  and  the  two  boats  pass 
the  winning-post  with  the  way  that  was  on  them  when  the 
bump  was  made.  So  near  a  shave  was  it. 

To  describe  the  scene  on  the  bank  is  beyond  me.  It  was  a 
hurly-burly  of  delirious  joy,  in  the  midst  of  which  took  place 
a  terrific  combat  between  Jack  and  the  Oriel  dog — a  noble  black 


A  STORM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS.  167 

bull  terrier  belonging  to  the  college  in  general,  and  no  one  in 
particular — who  always  attended  the  races  and  felt  the  misfor- 
tune keenly.  Luckily,  they  were  parted  without  worse  things 
happening ;  for  though  the  Oriel  men  were  savage,  and  not  dis- 
inclined for  a  jostle,  the  milk  of  human  kindness  was  too  strong 
for  the  moment  in  their  adversaries,  and  they  extricated  them- 
selves from  the  crowd,  carrying  off  Crib  their  dog,  and  looking 
straight  before  them  into  vacancy. 

"  Well  rowed,  boys,"  says  Jervis,  turning  round  to  his  crew 
as  they  lay  panting  on  their  oars. 

"  Well  rowed,  five,"  says  Miller,  who  even  in  the  hour  of 
such  a  triumph  is  not  inclined  to  be  general  in  laudation. 

"  Well  rowed,  five,"  is  echoed  from  the  bank  ;  it  is  that  cun- 
ning man,  the  recruiting-sergeant.  "  Fatally  well  1'owed,"  he 
adds  to  a  comrade,  with  whom  he  gets  into  one  of  the  punts  to 
cross  to  Christchurch  Meadow  ;  "  we  must  have  him  in  the 


University  crew." 

"  I  don't  think  you'll  get  hi 


rim  to  row,  from  what  I  hear,"  an- 
swers the  other. 

"  Then  he  must  be  handcuffed  and  carried  into  the  boat  by 
force,"  says  the  coxswain  O.  TJ.  JB. ;  "  why  is  not  the  pressgang 
an  institution  in  this  university  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  STOBM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS. 

CERTAINLY  Drysdale's  character  came  out  well  that  night. 
He  did  not  seem  the  least  jealous  of  the  success  which  had  been 
achieved  through  his  dismissal.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  no 
man  in  the  college  who  showed  more  interest  in  the  race,  or 
joy  at  the  result,  than  he.  Perhaps  the  pleasure  of  being  out 
of  it  himself  may  have  reckoned  for  something  with  him.  In 
any  case,  there  he  was  at  the  door  with  Jack,  to  meet  the  crew 
as  they  landed  after  the  race,  with  a  large  pewter  foaming  with 
shandygaff,  in  each  hand,  for  their  recreation.  Draco  himself, 
could  not  have  forbidden  them  to  drink  at  that  moment ;  so, 
amidst  shaking  of  hands  and  clappings  on  the  back,  the  pewters 
travelled  round  from  stroke  to  bow,  and  then  the  crew  went  off 
to  their  dressing-room,  accompanied  by  Drysdale  and  others. 

"  Bravo !  it  was  the  finest  race  that  has  been  seen  on  the 
river  this  six  years ;  everybody  says  so.  You  fellows  have  de- 
served well  of  your  country.  I've  sent  up  to  college  to  have 


168  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

supper  in  my  rooms,  and  you  must  all  come.  Hang  training  i 
there  are  only  two  more  nights,  and  you're  safe  to  keep  your 
place.  What  do  you  say, captain?  eh,  Miller?  Now  be  good- 
natured  for  once." 

"  Miller,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  we  don't  get  head  of  the  river  every  night,"  said  Mil- 
ler. "  I  don't  object  if  you'll  all  turn  out  and  go  to  bed  at 
eleven." 

41  That's  all  right,"  said  Drysdale ;  "  and  now  let's  go  to  the 
old  *  Choughs  '  and  have  a  glass  of  ale  while  supper  is  getting 
ready.  Eh,  Brown  ?  "  and  he  hooked  his  arm  into  Tom's  and 
led  the  way  into  the  town. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  you  were  not  in  it  for  the  finish,"  said  Tom, 
who  was  quite  touched  by  his  friend's  good-humor. 

"  Ai-e  you  ?"  said  Drysdale ;  "it's  more  than  I  am  then,  I  can 
tell  you.  If  you  could  have  seen  yourself  under  the  willows, 
you  wouldn't  have  thought  yourself  much  of  an  object  of  envy. 
Jack  and  I  were  quite  satisfied  with  our  share  of  work  and  glory 
on  the  bank.  Weren't  we,  old  fellow  ?  "  at  which  salutation 
Jack  reared  himself  on  his  hind  legs  and  licked  his  master's 
hand. 

"  Well,  you're  a  real  good  fellow  for  taking  it  as  you  do.  I 
don't  think  I  could  have  come  near  the  river  if  I  had  been  you." 

"  I  take  everything  as  it  comes,"  said  Drysdale.  "  The  next 
race  is  on  Derby  day,  and  I  couldn't  have  gone  if  I  hadn't  been 
turned  out  of  the  boat ;  that's  a  compensation,  you  see.  Here 
we  are ;  I  wonder  if  Miss  Patty  has  heard  of  the  victory  ?  " 

They  turned  down  the  little  passage-entrance  of  the 
"  Choughs  "  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  most  of  the  crew,  and  by  a 
tail  of  younger  St.  Ambrosians,  their  admirers,  and  the  bar  was 
crowded  the  next  moment.  Patty  was  there,  of  course,  and 
her  services  were  in  great  requisition  ;  for  though  each  of  the 
o.rew  only  took  a  small  glass  of  the  old  ale,  they  made  as  much 
hiss  about  it  with  the  pretty  barmaid  as  if  they  were  drinking 
hogsheads.  In  fact,  it  had  become  clearly  the  correct  thing 
with  the  St.  Ambrosians  to  make  much  of  Patty ;  and,  consid- 
ering the  circumstances,  it  was  only  a  wonder  that  she  was  not 
more  spoilt  than  seemed  to  be  the  case.  Indeed,  as  Hardy 
stood  up  in  the  corner  opposite  to  the  landlady's  chair,  a  silent 
onlooker  at  the  scene,  lie  couldn't  help  admitting  to  himself 
that  the  girl  held  her  own  well,  without  doing  or  saying  any- 
thing unbecoming  a  modest  woman.  And  it  was  a  hard  thing 
for  him  to  be  fair  to  her,  for  what  he  saw  now  in  a  few  minutes 
confirmed  the  impression  which  his  former  visit  had  left  on  his 
mind — that  his  friend  was  safe  in  her  toils ;  how  deeply,  of 


A  STORM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS.  1C9 

course,  he  could  not  judge,  but  that  there  was  more  between 
them  than  he  could  approve  was  now  clear  enough  to  him,  and 
he  stood  silent,  leaning  against  the  wall  in  that  furthest  corner, 
in  the  shadow  of  a  projecting  cupboard,  much  distressed  in  mind, 
and  pondering  over  what  it  behoved  him  to  do  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. With  the  exception  of  a  civil  sentence  or  two  to 
the  old  landlady,  who  sat  opposite  him  knitting,  and  casting 
rather  uneasy  looks  from  time  to  time  towards  the  front  of  the 
bar,  he  spoke  to  no  one.  In  fact,  nobody  came  near  that  end 
of  the  room,  and  their  existence  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten 
by  the  rest. 

Tom  had  been  a  little  uncomfortable  for  the  first  minute ;  but 
after  seeing  Hardy  take  his  glass  of  ale,  and  then  missing  him, 
forgot  all  about  him  and  was  too  busy  with  his  own  affairs 
to  trouble  himself  further.  He  had  become  a  sort  of  drawer 
or  barman  at  the  "  Choughs,"  and  presided,  under  Patty,  over 
the  distribution  of  the  ale,  giving  an  eye  to  his  chief  to  see  that 
she  was  not  put  upon. 

Drysdale  and  Jack  left  after  a  short  stay,  to  see  that  the 
supper  was  being  properly  prepared.  Soon  afterwards  Patty 
went  off  out  of  the  bar  in  answer  to  some  bell  which  called  her 
to  another  part  of  the  house ;  and  the  St.  Ambrosians  voted 
that  it  was  time  to  go  off  to  college  to  supper,  and  cleared  out 
into  the  street. 

Tom  went  out  with  the  last  batch  of  them,  but  lingered  a 
moment  in  the  passage  outside.  He  knew  the  house  and  its 
ways  well  enough  by  this  time.  The  next  moment  Patty 
appeared  from  a  side  door,  which,  led  to  another  part  of  the 
house. 

"  So  you're  not  going  to  stay  to  play  a  game  with  aunt,"  she 
said  ;  "  what  makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  must  go  up  to  college  ;  there's  a  supper  to  celebrate  our 
getting  head  of  the  river."  Patty  looked  down  and  pouted  a 
little.  Tom  took  her  hand,  and  said,  sentimentally,  "Don't  be 
cross  now ;  you  know  that  I  would  sooner  stay  here ;  don't 
you?" 

She  tossed  her  head,  and  pulled  away  her  hand,  and  then 
changing  the  subject,  said, — 

"  Who's  that  ugly  old  fellow  who  was  here  again  no-night  ?  " 

"There  was  no  one  older  than  Miller,  and  he  is  rather  an  ad- 
mirer of  yours.  I  shall  tell  him  you  called  him  ugly." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  Mr.  Miller ;  you  know  that  well  enough,'* 
she  answered.  "I  mean  him  in  the  old  rough  coat,  who  don't 
talk  to  any  one." 

"Ugly  old  fellow,  Patty?  Why,  you  mean  Hardy.  He's  a 
great  friend  of  mine,  and  you  mustjike  him  for  my  sake." 


J.70  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"I'm  sure  I  won't.  I  don't  like  him  a  bit ;  he  looks  so  cross 
at  me." 

"  It's  all  your  fancy.     There  now,  good-night." 

"  You  sha'n't  go,  however,  till  you've  given  me  that  hand- 
kerchief. You  promised  it  me  if  you  got  head  of  the  river." 

"  O  you  little  story-teller.  Why,  they  are  my  college  colors. 
I  wouldn't  part  with  them  for  worlds.  I'll  give  you  a  lock  of 
my  hair,  and  the  prettiest  handkerchief  you  can  find  in  Oxford ; 
but  not  this." 

"  But  I  will  have  it,  and  you  did  promise  me  it,"  she  said, 
and  put  up  her  hands  suddenly,  and  untied  the  bow  of  Tom's 
neck-handkerchief.  He  caught  her  wrists  in  his  hands,  and 
looked  down  into  her  eyes,  in  which,  if  he  saw  a  little  pique  at 
his  going,  he  saw  other  things  which  stirred  in  him  strange 
feelings  of  triumph  and  tenderness. 

"Well,  then,  you  shall  pay  for  it,  anyhow,"  he  said, — Why 
need  I  tell  what  followed  ? — There  was  a  little  struggle  ; 
a  "  Go  along,  do,  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  and  the  next  minute  Tom,  minus 
his  handkerchief,  was  hurrying  after  his  companions ;  and  Patty 
was  watching  him  from  the  door,  and  setting  her  cap  to  rights. 
Then  she  turned  and  went  back  into  the  bar,  and  started,  and 
turned  red,  as  she  saw  Hardy  there,  still  standing  in  the  further 
corner,  opposite  her  aunt.  He  finished  his  glass  of  ale  as  she 
came  in,  and  then  passed  out,  wishing  them  "  Good-night." 

"  Why,  aunt,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  they  were  all  gone.  Who 
was  that  sour-looking  man  ?  " 

"He  seems  a  nice  quiet  gentleman,  my  dear,"  said  the  old 
lady  looking  up.  "I'm  sure  he's  much  better  than  those  ones 
as  makes  so  much  racket  in  the  bar.  But  where  have  you  been, 
Patty?" 

"  Oh,  to  the  commercial  room,  aunt.  Won't  you  have  a  game 
at  cribbage?"  and  Patty  took  up  the  cards  and  set  the  board 
out,  the  old  lady  looking  at  her  doubtfully  all  the  time  through 
her  spectacles.  She  was  beginning  to  wish  that  the  college 
gentlemen  wouldn't  come  so  much  to  the  house,  though  they 
were  ver^  good  customers. 

Tom,  minK?  his  handkerchief,  hurried  after  his  comrades,  and 
caught  them  up  before  they  got  to  college.  They  were  all  there 
but  Hardy,  whose  absence  vexed  our  hero  for  a  moment ;  he  had 
hoped  that  Hardy,  now  t^at  he  was  in  the  boat,  would  have 
shaken  off  all  his  reserve  towards  the  other  men,  and  blamed 
him  because  he  had  not  done  s€  at  once.  There  could  be  no 
reason  for  it  but  his  own  oddness,  he  thought,  for  every  one 
was  full  of  his  praises  as  they  strolled  on  talking  of  the  race. 
Miller  praised  his  style  and  time  and  pluck.  "  Didn't  you  feel 


A  STORM  EEEWS  AND  BREAKS.  171 

how  the  boat  sprung  when  I  called  on  you  at  the  Cherwell  ? " 
ho  said  to  the  captain.  "  Drysdale  was  always  dead  beat  at  the 
Gut,  and  just  a  log  in  the  boat;  pretty  much  like  some  of  the 
rest  of  you." 

"  He's  in  such  good  training,  too,"  said  Diogenes  ;  "  I  shall 
find  out  how  he  diets  himself." 

"We've  pretty  well  done  with  that,  I  should  hope,"  said 
Number  6.  "  There  are  only  two  more  nights,  and  nothing  can 
touch  us  now." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Miller.  "Mind  now,  all  of 
you,  don't  let  us  have  any  nonsense  till  the  races  are  over  and 
we  are  all  safe." 

And  so  they  talked  on  till  they  reached  college,  and  then  dis- 
persed to  their  rooms  to  wash  and  dress,  and  met  again  in 
Drysdale's  rooms,  where  supper  was  awaiting  them. 

Again  Hardy  did  not  appear.  Drysdale  sent  a  scout  to  his 
rooms,  who  brought  back  word  that  he  could  not  find  him  ;  so 
Drysdale  set  to  work  to  do  the  honors  of  his  table,  and  enjoyed 
the  pleasure  of  tempting  the  crew  with  all  sorts  of  forbidden 
hot  liquors,  which  he  and  the  rest  of  the  non-professionals  im- 
bibed freely.  But  with  Miller's  eye  on  them,  and  the  example 
of  Diogenes  and  the  captain  before  them,  the  rest  of  the  crew 
exercised  an  abstemiousness  which  would  have  been  admirable, 
had  it  not  been  in  a  great  measure  compulsory. 

It  was  a  great  success,  this  supper  at  Drysdale's  although 
knocked  up  at  an  hour's  notice.  The  triumph  of  their  boat  had, 
for  the  time,  the  effect  of  warming  up  and  drawing  out  the 
feeling  of  fellowship,  which  is  the  soul  of  college  life.  Though 
only  a  few  men  besides  the  crew  sat  down  to  supper,  long  be- 
fore it  was  cleared  away  men  of  every  set  in  the  college  cnme 
in,  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  soon  the  room  was  crowded.  For 
Drysdale  sent  round  to  every  man  in  the  college  with  whom  he 
had  a  speaking  acquaintance,  and  they  flocked  in  and  sat  where 
they  could,  and  men  talked  and  laughed  with  neighbors,  with 
whom,  perhaps,  they  had  never  exchanged  a  word  since  the 
time  when  they  were  freshmen  together. 

Of  course,  there  were  speeches  cheered  to  the  echo,  and 
songs,  of  which  the  choruses  might  have  been  heard  in  the 
High  Street.  At  a  little  before  eleven,  nevertheless,  despite 
the  protestations  of  Drysdale,  and  the  passive  resistance  of 
several  of  their  number,  Miller  carried  off  the  crew,  and  many 
of  the  other  guests  went  at  the  same  time,  leaving  their  host 
and  a  small  circle  to  make  a  night  of  it. 

Tom  went  to  his  rooms  in  high  spirits,  humming  the  air 
of  one  of  the  songs  he  had  just  heard ;  but  he  had  scarcely 


172  TOM  BliOWX  JiT  OXFORD. 

thrown  his  gown  on  a  chair  when  a  thought  struck  him,  and  he 
ran  down-stairs  again  and  across  to  Hardy's  rooms. 

Hardy  was  sitting  with  some  cold  tea  poured  out,  but  un- 
tasted,  before  him,  and  no  books  open — a  very  unusual  thing 
with  him  at  night.  But  Tom  either  did  not  or  would  not 
notice  that  there  was  anything  unusual. 

He  seated  himself  and  began  gossiping  away  as  fast  as  he 
could,  without  looking  much  at  the  other.  He  began  by  re- 
counting all  the  complimentary  things  which  had  been  said  by 
Miller  and  others  of  Hardy's  pulling.  Then  he  went  on  to  the 
supper  party ;  what  a  jolly  evening  they  had  had  ;  he  did  not 
remember  anything  so  pleasant  since  he  had  been  up,  and  he 
retailed  the  speeches  and  named  the  best  songs.  "  You  really 
ought  to  have  been  there ;  why  didn't  yon  come ;  Drysdale 
sent  over  for  you.  I'm  sure  every  one  wished  you  had  been 
there.  Didn't  you  get  his  message?  " 

"  I  didn't  feel  up  to  going,"  said  Hardy. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  eh  ?"  said  Tom,  ns  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind  that  perhaps  Hardy  had  hurt  himself  in  the 
race,  as  he  had  not  been  regularly  training. 

"  No,  nothing,"  answered  the  other. 

Tom  tried  to  make  play  again,  but  soon  came  to  an  end  of 
his  talk.  It  was  impossible  to  make  head  against  that  cold 
silence.  At  last  he  stopped,  looked  at  Hardy  for  a  minute, 
who  was  staring  abstractedly  at  the  sword  over  his  mantel- 
piece, and  then  said, — 

"  There  is  something  the  matter,  though.  Don't  sit-  glower- 
ing as  if  you  had  swallowed  a  furze  bush.  Why,  you  haven't 
been  smoking,  old  boy?"  he  added,  getting  up  and  putting 
his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "I  see  that's  it.  Here, 
take  one  of  my  weeds,  they're  mild.  Miller  allows  two  of 
these  a  day." 

"No,  thank'ee,"  said  Hardy,  rousing  himself ;  "  Miller  hasn't 
interfered  with  my  smoking,  and  I  will  have  a  pipe,  for  )  think 
I  want  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  that  it  does  you  any  good,"  said  Tom, 
after  watching  him  fill,  and  light,  and  smoke  for  some  minute* 
without  saying  a  word.  "Here,  I've  managed  the  one  thing  I 
had  at  heart.  You  are  in  the  crew,  and  we  are  head  of  the 
river,  and  everybody  is  praising  your  rowing  up  to  the  skiery 
and  saying  that  the  bump  was  all  your  doing.  And  here  I  come 
to  tell  you,  and  not  a  word  can  I  get  out  of  you.  Ain't  you 
pleased  ?  Do  you  think  we  shall  keep  our  place  ?  "  He  paused 
a  moment. 

"  Hang  it  all,  I  say,"  he  added,  losing  all  patience  j  "  swear 


A  STORM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS,  178 

a  little  if  you  can't  do  anything  else.  Let's  hear  your  voice ; 
it,  Jsn't  such  a  tender  one  that  you  need  keep  it  all  shut  up." 

M  Well,"  said  Hardy,  making  a  great  effort  ;  "  the  real 
fact  is  I  have  something,  and  something  very  serious,  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Then  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  it,"  broke  in  Tom ;  "  I'm 
not  serious,  and  I  won't  be  serious,  and  no  one  shall  make 
me  serious  to-night.  It's  no  use,  so  don't  look  glum.  But 
isn't  the  ale  at  'The  Choughs'  good?  and  isn't  it  a  dear  little 
place?" 

"  It's  that  place  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said  Hardy, 
turning  to  him  at  last  with  a  deep  fetching  of  his  breath. 
"Now,  Brown,  we  haven't  known  one  another  long  but  I  think 
1  understand  you,  and  I  know  I  like  you,  and  I  hope  you  like 
me." 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  broke  in  Tom,  "  of  course  I  like  you,  old 
fellow,  or  else  I  shouldn't  come  poking  after  you,  and  wasting 
so  much  of  your  time,  and  sitting  on  your  cursed  hard  chairs 
:n  the  middle  of  the  races.  What  has  liking  to  do  with  '  The 
Choughs,'  or  '  The  Choughs  '  with  long  faces  ?  You  ought  tc 
have  had  another  glass  of  ale  there." 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  had  a  glass  of  ale  there,"  said  Hardys 
bolting  out  his  words  as  if  they  were  red-hot.  "  Brown,  you 
have  no  right  to  go  to  that  place." 

"Why?"  said  Tom,  sitting  up  in  his  chair,  and  beginning 
to  be  nettled. 

"  You  know  why,"  said  Hardy,  looking  him  full  in  the  face, 
and  puffing  out  huge  volumes  of  smoke.  In  spite  of  the  blunt- 
ness  of  the  attack,  there  was  a  yearning  look  which  spread 
over  the  rugged  brow,  and  shone  out  of  the  deep-set  eyes  of 
the  speaker,  which  almost  conquered  Tom.  But  first  pride, 
and  then  the  consciousness  of  what  was  coming  next,  which 
began  to  dawn  on  him,  rose  in  his  heart.  It  was  all  he  could 
«lo  to  meet  that  look  full,  but  he  managed  it,  though  he  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  as  he  simply  repeated  through  his  set 
teeth,  "  Why  ?  " 

"  I  say  again,"  said  Hardy,  "  you  know  why." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Tom,  slowly ;  "  as  you  say,  we. 
have  not  known  one  another  long ;  long  enough  though,  \ 
should  have  thought,  for  you  to  have  been  more  charitable. 
Why  am  I  not  to  go  to  '  The  Choughs,'  because  there  happens 
to  be  a  pretty  barmaid  there?  All  our  crew  go,  and  twenty 
other  men  besides." 

"  Yes ;  but  do  any  of  them  go  in  the  sort  of  way  you  do  ? 
Does  she  look  at  any  one  of  them  as  she  does  at  you  ? 


174  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  How  do  I  ::npw ;  * 

"  That's  not  fair,  or  true,  or  like  you,  Brown,"  said  Hardy, 
getting  up,  and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
"  You  do  know  that  that  girl  doesn't  care  a  straw  for  the 
other  men  who  go  there.  You  do  know  that  she  is  beginning 
to  care  for  you." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  it,"  said  Tom ;  "  I 
don't  believe  you  were  ever  there  before  two  days  ago." 

"  No,  I  never  was." 

"Then  I  think  you  needn't  be  quite  so  quick  at  rinding 
fault.  If  there  were  anything  I  didn't  wish  you  to  see,  do  you 
think  I  should  have  taken  you  there  ?  I  tell  you  she  is  quite 
able  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"So  I  believe,"  said  Hardy;  "if  she  were  a  mere  giddy, 
light  girl,  setting  her  cap  at  every  man  who  came  in,  it  wouldn't 
matter  so  much — for  her,  at  any  rate.  She  can  take  care  of 
herself  well  enough  so  far  as  the  rest  are  concerned,  but  you 
know  it  isn't  so  with  you.  You  know  it  now,  Brown  ;  tell  the 
truth ;  any  one  with  half  an  eye  can  see  it." 

"You  seem  to  have  made  pretty  good  use  of  your  eyes  in 
those  two  nights,  anyhow,"  said  Tom. 

"I  don't  mind  your  sneers,  Brown,"  said  Hardy,  as  he 
tramped  up  and  down  with  his  arms  locked  behind  him ;  "  I 
have  taken  on  myself  to  speak  to  you  about  this ;  I  should  be 
no  true  friend  if  I  shirked  it.  I'm  four  years  older  than  you, 
and  have  seen  more  of  the  world  and  of  this  place  than  you. 
You  sha'n't  go  on  with  this  folly,  this  sin,  for  want  of  warn- 
ing." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Tom,  doggedly.  "  Now  I  think  I've 
had  warning  enough  ;  suppose  we  drop  the  subject." 

Hardy  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  turned  on  Tom  with  a  look 
of  anger.  "  Not  yet,"  he  said,  firmly  ;  "  you  know  best  how 
and  why  you  have  done  it,  but  you  know  that  rjrmehow  ^r 
other  you  have  made  that  girl  like  you." 

"  Suppose  I  have,  what  then ;  whose  business  is  that  but 
mine  and  hers?" 

"  It's  the  business  of  every  one  who  won't  stand  by  and 
see  the  Devil's  game  played  under  his  nose  if  he  can  hin- 
der it." 

"  What  right  have  you  to  talk  about  the  Devil's  game  to 
me?"  said  Tom.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  if  you  and  I  are  to  keep 
friends,  we  had  better  drop  this  subject. 

"If  we  are  to  keep  friends  we  must  go  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
There  are  only  two  endings  to  this  sort  of  business,  and  you 
know  it  as  well  as  I" 


A  STORM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS.  175 

"A  right  and  a  wrong  one,  eh?  and  because  you  call  me 
your  friend  you  assume  that  my  end  will  be  the  wrong  one." 

"  I  do  call  you  my  friend,  and  I  say  the  end  must  be  the 
wrong  one  here.  There's  no  right  end.  Think  of  your  family. 
You  don't  mean  to  say — you  dare  not  tell  me,  that  you  will 
marry  her ! " 

"  I  dare  not  tell  you !  "  said  Tom,  starting  up  in  his  turn ; 
"I  dare  tell  you  or  any  man  anything  I  please.  But  I  won't 
tell  you  or  any  man  anything  on  compulsion." 

"  I  i-epeat,"  went  on  Hardy,  "  you  dare  not  say  you  mean  to 
marry  her.  You  don't  mean  it — and,  as  you  don't,  to  kiss  her 
as  you  did  to-night, — " 

"  So  you  were  sneaking  behind  to  watch  me,"  burst  out 
Tom,  chafing  with  rage,  and  glad  to  find  any  handle  for  a 
quarrel.  The  two  men  stood  fronting  one  another,  the  young- 
er writhing  with  the  sense  of  shame  and  outraged  pride,  and 
longing  for  a  fierce  answer,  a  blow,  anything  to  give  vent  to 
the  furies  which  were  tearing  him. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  few  seconds  the  elder  answered,  calmly 
and  slowly, — 

"  I  will  not  take  those  words  from  any  man ;  you  had  better 
leave  my  rooms." 

"  If  I  do  I  shall  not  come  back  till  you  have  altered  your 
opinions." 

"  You  need  not  come  back  till  you  have  altered  yours." 

The  next  moment  Tom  was  in  the  passage  ;  the  next,  strid- 
ing up  and  down  the  side  of  the  inner  quadrangle  in  the  pale 
moonlight. 

Poor  fellow  !  it  was  no  pleasant  walking-ground  for  him. 
Is  it  worth  our  while  to  follow  him  up  and  down  in  his  tramp  ? 
We  have  most  of  us  walked  the  like  marches,  I  suppose,  at 
one  time  or  another  of  our  lives.  The  memory  of  them  is  by 
no  means  one  which  we  can  dwell  on  with  pleasure.  Times 
they  were  of  blinding  and  driving  storm,  and  howling  winds, 
out  of  which  voices,  as  of  evil  spirits,  spoke  close  in  our  ears — • 
tauntingly,  temptingly,  whispering  to  the  mischievous  wild 
beast  which  lurks  in  the  bottom  of  all  our  hearts,  now,  "  Rouse 
up  !  art  thou  a  man  and  darest  not  do  this  thing?  "  now, 
"Rise,  kill  and  eat — It  is  thine,  wilt  thou  not  take  it?  shall 
the  flimsy  scruples  of  this  teacher,  or  the  sanctified  cant  o! 
that,  bar  thy  way,  and  baulk  thee  of  thine  own  ?  Thou  hast 
strength  to  brave  them — to  brave  all  things  in  earth,  or  heaven, 
or  hell ;  put  out  thy  strength  and  be  a  man  !  " 

Then  did  not  the  wild  beast  within  us  shake  itself,  and  feel 
its  power,  sweeping  away  all  the  "  Thou  shalt  not's "  which 


176  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  law  wrote  up  before  us  in  letters  of  fire,  with  the  "  I  mTl* 
of  hardy,  godless  self-assertion?  And  all  the  while — which 
alone  made  the  storm  really  dreadful  to  us — was  there  not  the 
still  small  voice — never  to  be  altogether  silenced  by  the  roar- 
ings of  the  tempest  of  passion,  by  the  evil  voices,  by  our  own 
violent  attempts  to  stifle  it — the  still  small  voice  appealing  to 
the  man,  the  true  man,  within  us,  which  is  made  in  the  image 
of  God— calling  on  him  to  assert  his  dominion  over  the  *rild 
beast — to  obey,  and  conquer,  and  live  ?  Ay !  and  though  we 
may  have  followed  the  other  voices,  have  we  not,  while  fol- 
lowing them,  confessed  in  our  hearts,  that  all  true  strength 
and  nobleness  and  manliness,  was  to  be  found  in  the  other 
path?  Do  I  say  that  most  of  us  have  had  to  tread  the  path, 
and  fight  this  battle  ?  Surely,  I  might  have  said  all  of  us ;  all 
at  least  who  have  passed  the  bright  days  of  their  boyhood. 
The  clear  and  keen  intellect  no  less  than  the  dull  and  heavy; 
the  weak,  the  cold,  the  nervous,  no  less  than  the  strong  and 
passionate  of  body.  The  arms  and  the  field  have  been  divers ; 
can  have  been  the  same,  I  suppose,  to  no  two  men,  but  the 
battle  must  have  been  the  same,  to  all.  One  here  and  there 
may  have  had  a  foretaste  of  it  as  a  boy  ;  but  it  is  the  young 
man's  battle  and  not  the  boy's,  thank  God  for  it !  That  most 
hateful  and  fearful  of  all  realities,  call  it  by  what  name  we  will 
— self,  the  natural  man,  the  old  Adam — must  have  risen  up 
before  each  of  us  in  early  manhood,  if  not  sooner,  challenging 
the  true  man  within  us,  to  which  the  spirit  of  God  is  speaking, 
to  a  struggle  for  life  or  death. 

Gird  yourself,  then,  for  the  fight,  my  young  brother,  and 
take  up  the  pledge  which  was  made  for  you  when  you  were  a 
helpless  child.  This  world,  and  all  others,  time  and  eternity, 
for  you  hang  upon  the  issue.  This  enemy  must  be  met  and 
vanquished — not  finally,  for  no  man  while  on  earth,  I  suppose, 
can  say  that  he  is  slain ;  but,  when  once  known  and  recog- 
nized, met  and  vanquished  he  must  be,  by  God's  help,  in  thin 
'ind  that  encounter,  before  you  can  be  truly  called  a  man  ;  b« 
fore  you  can  really  enjoy  any  one  even  of  this  world's  goo4 
things. 

The  strife  was  no  light  one  for  our  hero  on  the  night  in  his 
life  at  which  we  have  arrived.  The  quiet  sky  overhead,  the 
quiet,  solemn  old  buildings,  under  the  shadow  of  which  he 
stood,  brought  him  no  peace.  He  fled  from  them  into  his  own 
rooms ;  he  lighted  his  candles  and  tried  to  read,  and  force  the 
whole  matter  from  his  thoughts ;  but  it  was  useless  :  back  it 
came  again  and  again.  The  more  impatient  of  its  presence  he 
became,  the  less  could  he  shake  it  off.  Some  decision  he  must 


A  STORM  BREWS  AND  BREAKS.  177 

make ;  what  should  it  be  ?  Ho  could  have  no  peace  till  it  was 
taken.  The  veil  had  been  drawn  aside  thoroughly,  and  once 
for  all.  Twice  he  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  Hardy's 
rooms  to  thank  him,  confess,  and  consult ;  but  the  tide  rolled 
back  again.  As  the  truth  of  the  warning  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  him,  his  irritation  against  him  who  had  uttered  it 
grew  also.  He  could  not  and  would  not  be  fair  yet.  It  is  no 
easy  thing  for  any  one  of  us  to  put  the  whole  burden  of  any 
folly  or  siu  on  our  o\vn  backs  all  at  once.  "  If  he  had  done  it 
in  any  other  way,"  thought  Tom,  "  I  might  have  thanked 
him." 

Another  effort  to  shake  off  the  whole  question.  Down  into 
the  quadrangle  again ;  lights  in  Drysdale's  rooms.  He  goes  up, 
and  finds  the  remains  of  the  supper,  tankards  full  of  egg-flip 
and  cardinal,  and  a  party  playing  at  vingt-un.  He  drinks 
freely,  careless  of  training  or  boat-racing,  anxious  only  to 
drown  thought.  He  sits  down  to  play.  The  boisterous  talk 
of  some,  the  eager,  keen  looks  of  others,  jar  on  him  equally. 
One  minute  he  is  absent,  the  next  boisterous,  then  irritable, 
then  moody.  A  college  card-party  is  no  place  to-night  for 
him.  He  loses  his  money,  is  disgusted  at  last,  and  gets  to  his 
own  rooms  by  midnight ;  goes  to  bed  feverish,  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  with  all  the  world.  The  inexorable  question  pursues 
him  even  into  the  strange,  helpless  land  of  dreams,  demanding 
a  decision,  when  he  has  no  longer  power  of  will  to  choose 
either  good  or  evil. 

But  how  fared  it  all  this  time  with  the  physician  ?  Alas ! 
little  better  than  with  his  patient.  His  was  the  deeper  and 
more  sensitive  nature.  Keenly  conscious  of  his  own  position, 
he  had  always  avoided  any  but  the  most  formal  intercourse, 
with  the  men  in  his  college  whom  he  would  have  liked  most  to 
live  with.  This  was  the  first  friendship  he  had  made  amongst 
them,  and  he  valued  it  accordingly  ;  and  now  it  seemed  to  lie 
at  his  feet  in  hopeless  fragments,  and  cast  down,  too,  by  his 
own  hand.  Bitterly  he  blamed  himself  over  and  over  again, 
as  he  recalled  every  word  that  had  passed — not  for  having 
spoken, — that  he  felt  had  been  a  sacred  duty, — but  for  the 
harshness  and  suddenness  with  which  he  had  done  it. 

"One  touch  of  gentleness  or  sympathy,  and  I  might  have 
won  him.  As  it  was,  how  could  he  have  met  me  otherwise 
than  he  did — hard  word  for  hard  word,  hasty  answer  for 
proud  reproof  ?  Can  I  go  to  him  and  recall  it  all?  No;  I 
can't  trust  myself  ;  I  shall  only  make  matters  worse.  Besides, 
he  may  think  that  the  servitor — Ah !  am  I  there  again  ?  The 
old  sore,  self,  self,  self  1  I  nurse  my  own  pride  j  I  value  it 


178  TOM  intOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

more  than  ray  friend  ;  and  yet — no,  no  I  cannot  go,  though  I 
think  I  could  die  for  him.  The  sin,  if  sin  there  must  be,  be  on  my 
head.  Would  to  God  I  could  bear  the  sting  of  it !  But  there 
will  be  none — how  can  I  fear?  he  is  too  true,  too  manly. 
Rough  and  brutal  as  my  words  have  been,  they  have  shown 
him  the  gulf.  He  will,  he  must  escape  it.  But  will  he  evei 
come  back  to  me  ?  I  care  not,  so  he  escape." 

How  can  my  poor  words  follow  the  strong,  loving  man  in 
the  wrestlings  of  his  spirit,  till  far  ou  in  the  quiet  night  he 
laid  the  whole  before  the  Lord  and  slept I  \  es,  my  brother,  even 
so,  the  old,  old  story ;  but  start  not  at  the  phrase,  though  you 
may  never  have  found  its  meaning.  He  laid  the  whole  before 
the  Lord,  in  prayer,  for  tis  friend,  for  himself,  for  the  whole 
world. 

And  you,  too,  if  ever  you  are  tried  as  he  was, — a?  every  man 
must  be  in  one  way  or  another, — must  learn  to  do  the  like  with 
every  burden  on  your  soul,  if  you  would  not  have  it  hanging 
round  you  heavily,  and  ever  more  heavily,  and  dragging  you 
down  lower  and  lower  till  your  dying  day. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    STOKM   RAGES 

HAEDT  was  early  in  the  chapel  the  next  morning.  It  was 
his  week  for  pricking  in.  Every  man  that  entered — from  the 
early  men  who  strolled  in  quietly  while  the  bell  was  still  ring- 
ing, to  the  hurrying,  half-dressed  loiterers  who  crushed  in  as 
the  porter  was  closing  the  doors,  and  disturbed  the  congre- 
gation in  the  middle  of  the  confession, — gave  him  a  turn  (as  the 
expressive  phrase  is),  and  every  turn  only  ended  in  disappoint- 
ment. He  put  by  his  list  at  last,  when  the  doors  were  fairly 
shut,  with  a  sigh.  He  had  half  expected  to  see  Tom  come  in- 
to morning  chapel  with  a  face  from  which  he  might  have  gath- 
ered hope  that  his  friend  had  taken  the  right  path,  and  then  he 
would  have  little  care  as  to  how  he  felt  towards  himself ;  that 
would  all  come  right  in  time.  But  Tom  did  not  come  at  all,  and 
Hardy  felt  it  was  a  bad  sign. 

They  did  not  meet  till  the  evening,  at  the  river,  when  the 
boat  went  down  for  a  steady  pull,  and  then  Hardy  saw  at  once 
that  all  was  poing  wrong.  Neither  spoke  to  or  looked  at  the 
other.  Hardy  expected  some  one  to  remark  it,  but  nobody  did. 
After  the  pull  they  walked  up,  and  Tom  as  usual  led  the  way, 


THE  STORM  RAGES.  179 

as  if  nothing  had  happened,  into  "  Tho  Chonghs."  Hardy 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  in  too.  For  the  first  time 
he  stayed  till  the  rest  of  the  crew  left.  Tom  deliberately  stayed 
after  them  all.  Hardy  turned  for  a  moment  as  he  was  leaving 
the  bar,  and  saw  him  settling  himself  down  in  his  chair  with 
an  air  of  defiance,  meant  evidently  for  him,  which  would  have 
made  most  men  angry.  Hardy  was  irritated  for  a  moment,  and 
then  was  filled  with  ruth  for  the  poor  wrong-headed  youngster 
who  was  heaping  up  coals  of  fire  for  his  own  head.  In  his  mo- 
mentary anger  Hardy  said  to  himself,  "  Well,  I  have  done 
what  I  can  ;  now  he  must  go  his  own  way  ; "  but  such  a  thought 
was  soon  kicked  in  disgrace  from  his  noble  and  well-disciplined 
mind.  He  resolved,  that,  let  it  cost  what  it  might  in  the  shape 
of  loss  of  time  and  trial  of  temper,  he  would  leave  no  stone 
unturned,  and  spare  no  pains,  to  deliver  his  friend  of  yesterday 
from  the  slough  into  which  he  was  plunging.  How  he  might 
best  work  for  this  end  occupied  his  thoughts  as  he  walked  to- 
wards college. 

Tom  sat  on  at  "  The  Choughs,"  glorifying  himself  in  the 
thought  that  now,  at  any  rate,  he  had  shown  Hardy  that  he 
wasn't  to  be  dragooned  into  doing  or  not  doing  anything.  He 
had  had  a  bad  time  of  it  all  day,  and  his  good  angel  had  fought 
hard  for  victory ;  but  self-will  was  too  strong  for  the  time. 
When  he  stayed  behind  the  rest,  it  was  more  out  of  bravado 
than  from  any  defined  purpose  of  pursuing  what  he  tried  to 
persuade  himself  was  an  innocent  flirtation.  When  he  left  the 
house  some  hours  afterwards  he  was  deeper  in  the  toils  than 
ever,  and  clouds  were  gathering  over  his  heart.  From  that 
time  lie  was  an  altered  man,  and  altering  as  rapidly  for  the 
worse  in  body  as  in  mind.  Hardy  saw  the  change  in  both,  and 
groaned  over  it  in  secret.  Miller's  quick  eye  detected  the  bod- 
ily change.  After  the  next  race  he  drew  Tom  aside,  and 
said, — 

"  Why,  Brown,  what's  the  matter  ?  What  have  you  been 
about?  You're  breaking  down.  Hold  on,  man;  there's  only 
one  more  night." 

-'Xever  fear,"  said  Tom,  proudly,  "  I  shall  last  it  out." 

And  in  the  last  race  he  did  his  work  again,  though  it  cost 
him  more  than  all  the  preceding  ones  put  together,  and  when 
he  got  out  of  the  boat  he  could  scarcely  walk  or  see.  He  felt  a 
nei'ce  kind  of  joy  in  his  own  distress,  and  wished  that  there 
were  more  races  to  come.  But  Miller,  as  he  walked  up  arm  in 
arm  with  the  captain,  took  a  different  view  of  the  subject. 

"  Well,  it's  all  right,  you  see,"  said  the  captain ;  "  but  we're 
not  a  boat's  length  better  than  Oriel  over  the  course  after  all. 


180  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

How  was  it  we   bumped   them  ?    If   anything,   they  drew  a 
little  on  us  to-night." 

"Ay,  half  a  boat's  length,  I  should  say,"  answered  Miller. 
"I'm  uncommonly  glad  it's  over;  Brown  is  going  all  to  pieces; 
he  wouldn't  stand  another  race,  and  we  haven't  a  man  to  put 
in  his  place." 

"  It's  odd,  too,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  I  put  him  down  as  a 
laster,  and  he  has  trained  well.  Perhaps  he  has  overdone  it  a 
little.  However,  it  don't  matter  now." 

So  the  races  were  over  ;  and  that  night  a  great  supper  was 
held  iu  St.  Ambrose  Hall,  to  which  were  bidden,  find  came,  the 
crews  of  all  the  boats  from  Exeter  upwards.  The  dean,  will) 
many  misgivings  and  cautions,  had  allowed  the  hall  to  be  used 
on  pressure  from  Miller  and  Jervis.  Miller  was  a  bachelor  and 
had  taken  a  good  degree,  and  Jervis  bore  a  high  character  and 
was  expected  to  do  well  in  the  schools.  So  the  poor  dean  gave 
in  to  them,  extracting  many  promises  in  exchange  for  his  per- 
mission :  and  flitted  uneasily  about  all  the  evening  in  his  cap 
and  gown,  instead  of  working  on  at  his  edition  of  the  Fathers,, 
which  occupied  every  minute  of  his  leisure,  and  was  making  an 
old  man  of  him  before  his  time. 

From  eight  to  eleven  the  fine  old  pointed  windows  of  St. 
Ambrose  Hall  blazed  with  light,  and  the  choruses  of  songs,  and 
the  cheers,  which  followed  the  short  intervals  of  silence  which 
the  speeches  made,  rang  out  over  the  quadrangles,  and  made 
the  poor  dean  amble  about  in  a  state  of  nervous  bewilderment. 
Inside  there  was  hearty  feasting,  such  as  had  not  been  seen 
there,  for  aught  I  know,  since  the  dny  when  the  king  came 
back  to  "  enjoy  his  own  again."  The  one  old  cup,  relic  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  which  had  survived  the  civil  wars, — St.  Am- 
brose's had  been  a  right  loyal  college,  and  the  plate  had  gone 
without  a  murmur  into  Charles  the  First's  war-chest, — went 
round  and  round  ;  and  rival  crews  pledged  one  another  out  of 
it,  and  the  massive  tankards  of  a  later  day,  in  all  good  faith 
and  good  fellowship.  Mailed  knights,  grave  bishops,  royal 
pei-sons  of  either  sex,  and  "other  our  benefactors,"  looked 
down  on  the  scene  from  their  heavy-gilded  frames,  and,  let  us 
hope,  not  unkindly.  All  passed  off  well  and  quietly ;  the  out- 
college men  were  gone,  the  lights  were  out,  and  the  butler  had 
locked  the  hall-door  by  a  quarter-past  eleven,  and  the  dean 
returned  in  peace  to  his  own  rooms. 

Had  Tom  been  told  a  week  before  that  he  would  not  have 
enjoyed  that  night,  that  it  would  not  have  been  amongst  the 
happiest  and  proudest  of  his  life,  he  would  have  set  his  inform 
er  down  as  a  madman.  As  it  Mras,  he  never  once  rose  to  the 


THE  STOltM  RAGES.  181 

Spirit  of  the  feast,  and  wished  it  all  over  a  dozen  times.  He 
deserved  not  to  enjoy  it ;  but  not  so  Hardy,  who  was,  neverthe- 
less, almost  as  much  out  of  tune  as  Tom ;  though  the  University 
coxswain  bad  singled  him  out,  named  him  in  his  speech,  sat  by 
him  and  talked  to  him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  asked  him 
to  go  to  the  Henley  and  Thames  regattas  in  the  Oxford  crew. 

The  next  evening,  as  usual,  Tom  found  himself  at  "  The 
Choughs  "  with  a  half  a  dozen  others.  Patty  was  in  the  bar 
by  herself,  looking  prettier  than  ever.  One  by  one  the  rest  of 
the  men  dropped  off,  the  last  saying,  "Are  you  coming, 
Brown  ?  "  and  being  answered  in  the  negative. 

He  sat  still,  watching  Patty  as  she  flitted  about,  washing  up 
the  ale  glasses  and  putting  them  on  their  shelves,  and  getting 
out  her  work-basket ;  and  then  she  came  and  sat  down  in  her 
aunt's  chair  opposite  him,  and  began  stitching  away  demurely 
at  an  apron  she  was  making.  Then  he  broke  silence, — 

"Where's  your  aunt  to-night,  Patty?" 

"  Oh,  she  has  gone  away  for  a  few  days  for  a  visit  to  some 
friends." 

"  You  and  I  will  keep  house,  then,  together ;  you  shall  teach 
me  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  I  shall  make  a  famous  barman, 
don't  you  think?" 

"  You  must  learn  to  behave  better,  then.  But  I  promised 
aunt  to  shut  up  at  nine  ;  so  you  must  go  when  it  strikes.  Now 
promise  me  you  will  go." 

"  Go  at  nine  !  what,  in  half  an  hour  ?  the  first  evening  I  have 
ever  had  a  chance  of  spending  alone  with  you ;  do  you  think  it 
likely  ?  "  and  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  She  turned  away  with 
a  slight  shiver,  and  a  deep  blush. 

His  nervous  system  had  been  so  unusually  excited  in  the  last 
few  days,  that  he  seemed  to  know  everything  that  was  passing 
in  her  mind.  He  took  her  hand.  "  Why,  Patty,  you're  not 
afraid  of  me,  surely  ?"  he  said,  gently. 

"  No,  not  when  you're  like  you  are  now.  But  you  frightened 
me  just  this  minute.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  before.  Has 
anything  happened  you?  " 

"No,  nothing.  Now,  then,  we're  going  to  have  a  jolly 
evening,  and  play  Darby  and  Joan  together,"  he  said,  turning 
away,  and  going  to  the  bar  window  ;  "  shall  I  shut  up,  Patty  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  nine  yet ;  somebody  may  come  in." 

"  That's  just  why  I  mean  to  put  the  shutters  up  ;  I  don't 
want  anybody." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  though.  Now,  I  declare,  Mr.  Brown,  if  you 
go  on  shutting  up,  I'll  run  into  the  kitchen  and  sit  with  Diek." 

"  Why  will  you  call  me  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 


182  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Why,  what  should  I  call  you?" 

"  Tom,  of  course." 

"Oh,  I  never  1  one  would  think  you  was  ray  brother,"  said 
Patty,  looking  up  with  a  pretty  pertness  which  she  had  a  most 
bewitching  way  of  putting  on.  Tom's  rejoinder,  and  the  little 
squabble  which  they  had  afterwards  about  where  her  work- 
table  should  stand  and  other  such  matters  may  be  passed  over, 
At  last  he  was  brought  to  reason,  and  to  anchor  opposite  his 
enchantress,  the  work-table  between  them;  and  he  sat  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  and  watching  her,  as  she  stitched  away  with- 
out ever  lifting  her  eyes.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  break  the 
silence.  The  position  was  particularly  fascinating  to  him,  for 
he  had  scarcely  ever  yet  had  a  good  look  at  her  before,  with- 
out fear  of  attracting  attention,  or  being  interrupted.  At  last 
he  roused  himself. 

"  Any  of  our  men  been  here  to-day,  Patty  ?  "  he  said,  sitting 
up. 

"  There  now,  I've  won,"  she  laughed ;  "  I  said  to  myself,  I 
wouldn't  speak  first,  and  I  haven't.  What  a  time  you  were !  I 
thought  you  would  never  begin." 

"  You're  a  little  goose !  Now  I  begin  then ;  who've  been 
here  to-day?" 

"  Of  your  college  ?  let  me  see  ; "  and  she  looked  away  across 
to  the  bar  window,  pricking  her  needle  into  the  table.  "  There 
was  Mr.  Drysdale  and  some  others  called  for  a  glass  of  ale  as 
they  passed,  going  out  driving.  Then  there  was  Mr.  Smith  and 
them  from  the  boats  about  four :  and  that  ugly  one — I  can't 
mind  his  name — " 

"What,  Hardy?" 

"  Yes,  that's  it ;  he  was  here  about  half-past  six,  and — " 

"  What,  Hardy  here  after  hall  ?  "  interrupted  Tom,  utterly 
astonished. 

"  Yes,  after  your  dinner  up  at  college.  He's  been  here  two 
or  three  times  lately." 

"  The  deuce  he  has." 

"Yes,  and  he  talks  so  pleasant  to  aunt  too.  I'm  sure  he  is 
a  very  nice  gentleman,  after  all.  He  sat  and  talked  to-night 
for  half  an  hour,  I  should  think." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Oh,  he  asked  me  whether  I  had  a  mother,  and  where  I 
came  from,  and  all  about  my  bringing  up,  and  made  me  feel 
quite  pleasant.  He  is  so  nice  and  quiet  and  respectful,  not  like 
most  of  you.  I'm  going  to  like  him  very  much,  as  you  told 
me." 

"  I  don't  tell  you  so  now." 


THE  STORM  RAGES.  183 

"  But  you  did  say  he  was  your  great  friend." 

"  Well,  he  isn't  that  now." 

"  What,  have  you  quarrelled  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Dear,  dear  ;  how  odd  you  gentlemen  are ! " 

"  Why,  it  isn't  a  very  odd  thing  for  men  to  quarrel ;  is  it  ?" 

"  No,  not  in  the  public  room.  They're  always  quarrelling 
there,  over  their  drink  and  the  bagatelle-board  ;  and  Dick  has 
to  tum  them  out.  But  gentlemen  ought  to  know  better." 

"  They  don't,  you  see,  Patty." 

u  But  what  did  you  quarrel  about  ?  " 

"  Guess." 

"  How  can  I  guess  ?    What  was  it  about  ?  " 

"  About  you." 

"  About  me ! "  she  said,  looking  up  from  her  work  in  wonder. 
u  How  could  you  quarrel  about  me?" 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  ;  he  said  I  had  no  right  to  come  here. 
You  won't  like  him  after  that,  will  you,  Patty  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Patty,  going  on  with  her 
work  and  looking  troubled. 

They  sat  still  for  some  minutes.  Evil  thoughts  crowded  in- 
to Tom's  head.  He  was  in  the  humor  for  thinking  evil  thoughts, 
and,  putting  the  worst  construction  on  Hardy's  visit,  fancied 
he  came  there  as  his  rival.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak 
till  he  had  mastered  his  precious  discovery,  and  put  it  away  in 
the  back  of  his  heart,  and  weighted  it  down  there  with  a  good 
covering  of  hatred  and  revenge,  to  be  brought  out  as  occasion 
should  serve.  He  was  plunging  down  rapidly  enough  now  ; 
but  he  had  new  motives  for  making  the  most  of  his  time,  and 
never  played  his  cards  better,  or  made  more  progress.  When  a 
man  sits  down  to  such  a  game,  the  Devil  will  take  good  care 
that  he  sha'n't  want  cunning  or  strength.  It  was  ten  o'clock 
instead  of  nine  before  he  left,  which  he  did  with  a  feeling  of 
triumph.  Poor  Patty  remained  behind,  and  shut  up  the  bar., 
while  Dick  was  locking  the  front  door,  her  heart  in  a  flutter, 
and  her  hands  shaking.  She  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry  ;  she  felt  the  change  which  had  come  over  him,  and  was 
half  fascinated  and  half  repelled  by  it. 

Tom  walked  quickly  back  to  college,  in  a  mood  which  1  do 
not  care  to  describe.  The  only  one  of  his  thoughts  which  my 
readers  may  be  troubled  with,  put  itself  into  some  such  words 
as  these  in  his  head : — "  So,  it's  Abingdon  fair  next  Thursday 
and  she  has  half  promised  to  go  with  me.  I  know  I  can  make 
it  cei'tain.  Who'll  be  going  besides  ?  Drysdale,  I'll  be  bound. 
I'll  so  and  see  him." 


184  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

On  entering  college,  he  went  straight  to  Drysdale's  rooms, 
and  drank  deeply,  and  played  high  into  the  short  hours  of  the 
night,  but  found  no  opportunity  of  speaking. 

"Deeper  and  deeper  yet  for  the  next  few  days.  Downwards 
and  ever  faster  downwards  he  plunged,  the  light  getting  fainter 
and  ever  fainter  above  his  head.  Little  good  can  corae  of 
dwelling  on  those  days.  He  left  off  pulling,  shunned  bis  old 
friends,  and  lived  with  the  very  worst  men  he  knew  in  college, 
who  were  ready  enough  to  let  him  share  all  their  brutal  orgies. 

Drysdale,  who  was  often  present,  wondered  at  the  change, 
which  he  saw  plainly  enough.  He  was  sorry  for  it  in  his  way, 
but  it  was  no  business  of  bis.  He  began  to  think  that  Brown 
was  a  good  enough  fellow  before,  but  would  make  a  devilish 
disagreeable  one  if  he  was  going  to  turn  fast  man. 

At  "  The  Choughs  "  all  went  on  as  if  the  downward  path 
knew  how  to  make  itself  smooth.  Now  that  the  races  were 
over,  and  so  many  other  attractions  going  on  in  Oxford,  very 
fc:\v  men  came  in  to  interfere  with  him.  He  was  scarcely  ever 
away  from  Patty's  side  in  the  evenings  while  her  aunt  was 
absent,  and  gained  more  and  more  power  over  her.  He  might 
have  had  some  compassion,  but  that  he  was  spurred  on  by 
hearing  how  Hardy  haunted  the  place  now,  at  times  when  he 
could  not  be  there.  He  felt  that  there  was  an  influence  strug- 
gling with  his  in  the  girl's  mind;  he  laid  it  to  Hardy's  door, 
and  iinnuted  it  still,  more  and  more,  to  motives  as  base  as  his 
own.  But  Abingdon  fair  wras  coming  on  Thursday.  When 
he  left  "The  Choughs"  on  Tuesday  night,  he  had  extracted  a 
promise  from  Patty  to  accompany  him  there,  and  had  arranged 
their  place  of  meeting. 

All  that  remained  to  be  done  was  to  see  if  Drysdale  waa 
going.  Somehow  he  felt  a  disinclination  to  go  alone  with 
Patty.  Drysdale  was  the  only  man  of  those  he  was  now  living 
with  to  whom  he  felt  the  lest  attraction.  In  a  vague  way  he 
clung  to  him;  and  though  he  never  faced  the  thought  of  what 
he  was  about  fairly,  yet  it  passed  through  his  mind  that  even 
in  Drysdale's  company  he  would  be  safer  than  if  alone.  It  was 
all  pitiless,  blind,  wild  work,  without  rudder  or  compass ;  the 
wish  that  nothing  very  bad  might  come  out  of  it  all,  however, 
came  up  in  spite  of  him  now  and  again,  and  he  looked  at  Drys- 
dale, and  longed  to  become  even  as  he. 

Drysdale  was  going.  He  was  very  reserved  on  the  subject, 
but  at  last  confessed  that  he  was  not  going  alone.  Tom  per- 
sisted. Drysdale  was  too  lazy  and  careless  to  keep  anything 
from  a  man  who  was  bent  on  knowing  it.  In  the  end,  it  was 
arranged  that  he  should  drive  Tom  out  the  next  afternoon. 


THE  STORM  RAGES.  185 

He  did  so.  They  stopped  at  a  small  public  house  some  two 
miles  out  of  Oxford.  The  cart  was  put  up,  and  after  carefully 
scanning  the  neighborhood  they  walked  quickly  to  the  door  of 
a  pretty  retired  cottage.  As  they  entered,  Drysdale  said, — 

"  By  Jove,  I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  friend 
Hardy  at  that  turn." 

"Friend  !  he's  no  friend  of  mine." 

"But  didn't  you  see  him?" 

"No." 

They  reached  college  again  between  ten  and  eleven,  and 
parted  each  to  his  own  rooms. 

To  his  surprise,  Tom  found  a  candle  burning  on  his  table. 
Round  the  candle  was  tied  a  piece  of  string,  at  the  end  of 
which  hung  a  note.  Whoever  had  put  it  there  had  clearly 
been  anxious  that  he  should  in  no  case  miss  it  when  he  camo 
in.  He  took  it  up  and  saw  that  it  was  in  Hardy's  hand.  Ho 
paused,  and  trembled  as  he  stood.  Then  with  an  effort  he 
broke  the  seal  and  read — 

"  I  must  speak  once  more.  To-morrow  it  may  be  too  late.  If 
you  go  to  Abingdon  fair  with  her  in  the  company  of  Drysdale 
and  his  mistress,  or,  I  believe,  in  any  company,  you  will  return 
a  scoundrel,  and  she  — ;  in  the  name  of  the  honor  of  your  mother 
and  sister,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  warn  you.  May  He  help  you 
through  it.  JOHN  HAKDY." 

Here  we  will  drop  the  curtain  for  the  next  hour.  At  the  end 
of  that  time,  Tom  staggered  out  of  his  room,  down  the  staircase, 
across  the  quadrangle,  up  Drysd ale's  staircase.  He  paused  at 
the  door  to  gather  some  strength,  ran  his  hands  through  his 
hair,  and  arranged  his  coat ;  notwithstanding,  when  he  entered, 
Drysdale  started  to  his  feet,  upsetting  Jack  from  his  comforta- 
ble coil  on  the  sofa. 

"  Why,  Brown,  you're  ill ;  have  some  brandy,"  he  said,  and 
went  to  his  cupboard  for  the  bottle. 

Tom  leant  his  arm  on  the  fireplace  ;  his  head  on  it.  Theothei 
hand  hung  down  by  his  side,  and  Jack  licked  it,  and  he  loved 
the  dog  as  he  felt  the  caress.  Then  Drysdale  came  to  his  side 
with  a  glass  of  brandy,  which  he  took  and  tossed  off  as  though 
it  had  been  water.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  as  Drysdale  went 
back  with  the  bottle,  reached  a  large  arm-chair  and  sat  himself 
down  in  it. 

"Drysdale,  I  sha'n't  go  with  you  to  Abingdon  fair  to- 
morrow." 

"  Hullo  !  what,  has  the  lovely  Patty  thrown  you  over  ?  "  said 
Drysdale,  turning  from  the  cupboard,  and  resuming  his  lounge 
on  the  sofa. 


186  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  No : "  he  sank  back  into  the  chair,  on  the  arm  of  which  his 
elbows  rested,  and  put  his  hands  up  before  his  face,  pressing 
them  against  his  burning  temples.  Drysdale  looked  at  him  hard, 
but  said  nothing ;  and  there  was  a  dead  silence  of  a  minute  or 
so,  broken  only  by  Tom's  heavy  breathing,  which  he  was  labor- 
ing in  vain  to  control. 

"  No,"  he  repeated  at  last,  and  the  remaining  words  came 
out  slowly  as  if  they  were  trying  to  steady  themselves,  "  but, 
by  God,  Drysdale,  I  cartt  take  her  with  you,  and  that — "  a  dead 
pause. 

"  The  young  lady  you  met  to-night,  eh  ?  " 
Tom  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Drysdale,  "  now  you've  made  up 
your  mind,  I  tell  you,  I'm  devilish  glad  of  it !  I'm  no  saint,  as 

you  know,  but  I  think  it  would  have  been  a  d d  shame  if 

you  had  taken  her  with  us." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  and  pressed  his  fingers  tighter  on 
his  forehead  ;  and  he  did  feel  thankful  for  the  words,  though, 
coming  from  the  man  they  did,  they  went  into  him  like  coals 
of  fire. 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause,  Tom  sitting  as  before.  Drys- 
dale got  up,  and  strolled  up  and  down  his  room,  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  silk-lined  lounging  coat,  taking  at  each 
turn  a  steady  look  at  the  other.  Presently,  he  stopped,  and 
took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth.  "  I  say,  Brown,"  he  said,  after 
another  minute's  contemplation  of  the  figure  before  him,  which 
bore  such  an  unmistakable  impress  of  wretchedness,  that  it 
made  him  quite  uncomfortable,  "why  don't  you  cut  that  con- 
cern?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Why  that  '  Choughs '  business — I'll  be  hanged  if  it  won't 
kill  you,  or  make  a  devil  of  you  before  long,  if  you  go  on  with 
it." 

"  It's  not  far  from  that  now." 

"  So  I  see — and  I'll  tell  you  what,  you're  not  the  sort  of  fellow 
to  go  in  for  this  kind  of  thing.     You'd  better  leave  it  to  cold- 
blooded brutes,  like  some  we  know — I  needn't  mention  names." 
"  I'm  awfully  wretched,  Drysdale ;  I've  been  a  brute  myself 
to  you  and  everybody  of  late." 

*'  Well,  I  own  I  don't  like  the  new  side  of  you.  Now  make 
up  your  mind  to  cut  the  whole  concern,  old  fellow,"  he  said, 
coming  up  good-naturedly,  and  putting  his  hand  on  Tom's 
shoulder ;  "  it's  hard  to  do,  I  dare  say,  but  you  had  better  make 
the  plunge  and  get  it  over.  There's  wickedness  enough  going 
about  without  your  helping  to  shove  another  one  into  it." 


NEW  GROUND.  1»7 

Tom  groaned  as  he  listened,  but  he  felt  that  the  man  was 
trying  to  help  him  in  his  own  way,  and  according  to  his  light, 
as  Drysdale  went  on  expounding  his  own  curious  code  of  mor- 
ality. When  it  was  ended  he  shook  Drysdale's  hand,  and, 
wishing  him  good-night,  went  back  to  his  own  rooms.  The  first 
step  upwards  towards  the  light  had  been  made,  for  he  felt 
thoroughly  humbled  before  the  man  on  whom  he  had  expended 
in  his  own  mind  so  much  patronizing  pity  for  the  last  half-year 
— whom  ha  had  been  fancying  he  was  influencing  for  good. 

During  the  long  hours  of  the  night  the  scenes  of  the  last  few 
hours,  of  the  last  few  days,  came  back  to  him  and  burnt  into 
his  soul.  The  gulf  yawned  before  him  now  plain  enough,  open 
at  his  feet — black,  ghastly.  He  shuddered  at  it,  wondered  if 
he  should  even  yet  fall  in,  felt  wildly  about  for  strength  to 
stand  firm,  to  retrace  his  steps  ;  but  found  it  not.  He  found 
not  yet  the  strength  he  was  in  search  of,  but  in  the  gray  morning 
he  wrote  a  short  note. 

"  I  shall  not  be  able  to  take  you  to  Abingdon  fair  to-day. 
You  will  not  see  me  perhaps  for  some  days.    I  am  not  well.    I 
am  very   sorry.    Don't  think   that  I  am  changed.    Don't  be 
unhappy,   or  I  don't  know  what  I  may  do."     There  was  no. 
address  and  no  signature  to  the  note. 

When  the  gates  opened  he  hurried  out  of  the  college,  and, 
having  left  it  and  a  shilling  with  Dick  (whom  he  found  clearing 
the  yard,  and  much  astonished  at  his  appearance,  and  who  prom- 
ised to  deliver  it  to  Patty  with  his  own  hands  before  eight 
o'clock),  he  got  back  again  to  his  own  rooms,  went  to  bed,  worn 
out  in  mind  and  body,  and  slept  till  midday. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NETV  GROUND. 

MY  readers  have  now  been  steadily  at  Oxford  for  six  months 
without  moving.  Most  people  find  such  a  spell  of  the  place, 
without  a  change,  quite  as  much  as  they  care  to  take ;  more- 
over it  may  do  our  hero  good  to  let  him  alone  for  a  number, 
that  he  may  have  time  to  look  steadily  into  the  pit  which  he 
has  been  sc  near  falling  into,  which  is  still  yawning  awkwardly 
in  his  path;  moreover,  the  exigencies  of  a  story-teller  must 
lead  him  away  from  home  now  and  then.  Like  the  rest  of  us, 
his  family  must  have  change  of  air,  or  he  has  to  go  off  to  see  a 
friend  properly  married,  or  a  connection  buried ;  to  wear  white 


188  TOM  BEO  WN  A  T  OXFORD. 

or  black  gloves  with  or  for  some  one,  carrying  such  sympathy 
as  he  can  with  him,  that  so  he  may  come  back  from  every 
journey,  however  short,  with  a  wider  horizon.  Yes;  to  come 
back  home  after  every  stage  of  life's  journeying  with  a  wider 
horizon,  more  in  sympathy  with  men  and  nature,  knowing  ever 
more  of  the  righteous  and  eternal  laws  which  govern  them, 
and  of  the  righteous  and  loving  will  which  is  above  all,  and 
around  all,  and  beneath  all,  this  must  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all 
of  us,  or  we  shall  be  wandering  about  blindfold,  and  spending 
time  and  labor  and  journey-money  on  that  which  profiteth 
nothing.  So  now  I  must  ask  my  readers  to  forget  the  old 
buildings  and  quadrangles  of  the  fairest  of  England's  cities,  the 
caps  and  the  gowns,  the  reading  and  rowing,  for  a  short  space, 
and  take  a  flight  with  me  to  other  scenes  and  pastures  new. 

The  nights  are  pleasant  in  Hay,  short  and  pleasant  for 
travel.  We  will  leave  the  ancient  city  asleep,  and  do  our 
flight  in  the  night  to  save  time.  Trust  yourselves,  then,  to 
the  story-teller's  aerial  machine.  It  is  but  a  rough  affair,  I  own 
— rough  and  humble,  unfitted  for  high  or  great  flights,  with  no 
gilded  panels,  or  dainty  cushions,  or  C-springs, — not  that  we 
shall  care  about  springs,  by  the  way,  until  we  alight  on  terra 
firma  again, — still,  there  is  much  to  be  learned  in  a  third-class 
carriage  if  we  will  only  not  look  for  the  cushions  and  fine 
panels  and  forty  miles  an  hour  travelling  in  it,  and  will  not  be 
shocked  at  our  fellow-passengers  for  being  weak  in  their  h's 
and  smelling  of  fustian.  Mount  in  it,  then,  you  who  will  after 
this  warning;  the  fares  are  holiday  fares,  the  tickets  return 
tickets.  Take  with  you  nothing  but  the  poet's  luggage — 

"  A  smile  for  Hope,  a  tear  for  Pain, 

A  breath  to  swell  the  voice  of  Prayer." 

and  may  you  have  a  pleasant  journey,  for  it  is  time  that  the 
stoker  should  be  looking  to  his  going  gear ! 

So  now  we  rise  slowly  in  the  moonlight  from  St.  Ambrose's 
quadrangle,  and,  when  we  are  clear  of  the  clocktower,  steer 
a\vay  southwards,  over  Oxford  city  and  all  its  sleeping  wisdom 
and  folly,  over  street  and  past  spire,  over  Christ  Church  and 
the  canons'  houses,  and  the  fountain  in  Tom  quad  ;  over  St. 
Aldate's  and  the  river,  along  which  the  moonbeams  lie  in  a 
pathway  of  twinkling  silver,  over  the  railway  sheds — no,  there 
was  then  no  railway,  but  only  the  quiet  fields  and  footpaths  of 
Hincksey  hamlet.  Well,  no  matter;  at  any  rate,  the  hills 
beyond  and  Bagley  Wood  were  there  then  as  now  ;  and  over 
hills  and  wood  we  rise,  catching  the  purr  of  the  night-jar,  the 
trill  of  the  nightingale,  and  the  first  crow  of  the  earliest  cock 


NEW 


189 


pheasant,  as  he  stretches  his  jewelled  wings,  conscious  of  his 
strength  and  his  beauty,  heedless  of  the  fellows  of  St.  John's, 
who  slumber  within  sight  of  his  perch,  on  whose  hospitable 
board  he  shall  one  day  lie  prone  on  his  back,  with  fair  larded 
breast  turned  upwards  for  the  carving  knife,  having  crowed 
his  last  crow.  He  knows  it  not;  what  matters  it  to  him? 
If  he  knew  it,  could  a  Bagley  Woodcock  pheasant  desire  a 
better  ending  ? 

We  pass  over  the  vale  beyond ;  hall  and  hamlet,  church  and 
meadow,  and  copse  folded  in  mist  and  shadow  below  us,  each 
hamlet  holding  in  its  bosom  the  materials  of  three-volumed 
novels  by  the  dozen,  if  we  could  only  pull  off  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  and  look  steadily  into  the  interiors  ;  but  our  destination 
is  further  yet.  The  faint  white  streak  behind  the  distant 
Chilterns  reminds  us  that  we  have  no  time  for  gossip  by  the 
way ;  May  nights  are  short,  and  the  sun  will  be  up  by  four. 
No  matter ;  our  journey  will  now  be  soon  over,  for  the  broad 
vale  is  crossed,  and  the  chalk  hills  and  downs  beyond.  Larks 
quiver  up  by  us,  "  higher,  ever  higher,"  hastening  up  to  get  a 
first  glimpse  of  the  coming  monarch,  careless  of  food,  flooding 
the  fresh  air  with  song.  Steady  plodding  rooks  labor  along 
below  us,  and  lively  starlings  rush  by  on  the  lookout  for  the 
early  worm ;  lark  and  swallow,  rook  and  starling,  each  on  his 
appointed  round.  The  sun  arises,  and  they  get  them  to  it ;  he 
is  up  now,  and  these  breezy  uplands  over  which  we  hang  are 
swimming  in  the  light  of  horizontal  rays,  though  the  shadows 
and  mists  still  lie  on  the  wooded  dells  which  slope  away 
southwards. 

Here  let  us  bring  to,  over  the  village  of  Englebourn,  and  try 
to  get  acquainted  with  the  outside  of  the  place  before  the  good 
folk  are  about  and  we  have  10  go  down  among  them,  and  their 
sayings  and  doings. 

The  village  lies  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the  Berkshire  hills, 
on  the  opposite  side  to  that  under  which  our  hero  was  born. 
Another  soil  altogether  is  here,  we  remark  in  the  first  place. 
This  is  nobu  chalk,  this  high  knoll  which  rises  above — one  may 
almost  say  hangs  over — the  village,  crowned  with  Scotch  firs, 
its  sides  tufted  with  gorse  and  heather.  It  is  the  Hawk's 
Lynch,  the  favorite  resort  of  Englebourn  folk,  who  come  up — 
for  the  view,  for  the  air,  because  their  fathers  and  mothers 
came  up  before  them  ;  because  they  came  up  themselves  as 
children — from  an  instinct  which  moves  them  all  in  leisure 
hours  and  Sunday  evenings,  when  the  sun  shines  and  the  birds 
sing,  whether  they  care  for  view  or  air  or  not.  Something 
guides  all  the*r  feet  hither  ward ;  the  children,  to  play  hide-and- 


190  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

geek  and  look  for  nests  in  the  gorse-bushes ;  young  men  and 
maidens,  to  saunter  and  look  and  talk,  as  they  will  till  the 
world's  end, — or  as  long,  at  any  rate,  as  the  Hawk's  Lynch  and 
Englebourn  last, — and  to  cut  their  initials,  enclosed  in  a  true 
lover's  knot,  on  the  short  rabbit's  turf ;  steady  married  couples, 
to  plod  along  together  consulting  on  hard  times  and  growing 
families ;  even  old  tottering  men,  who  love  to  sit  at  the  feet  fif- 
th e  firs,  with  chins  leaning  on  their  sticks,  prattling  of  days 
long  past  to  any  one  who  will  listen,  or  looking  silently  with 
dim  eyes  into  the  summer  air,  feeling,  perhaps,  in  their  spirits 
after  a  wider  and  more  peaceful  view  which  will  soon  open  for 
them.  A  common  knoll,  open  to  all,  up  in  the  silent  air,  well 
away  from  every-day  Englebourn  life,  with  the  Hampshire 
range  and  the  distant  Beacon  Hill  lying  soft  on  the  horizon, 
and  nothing  higher  between  you  and  the  southern  sea,  what  a 
blessing  the  Hawk's  Lynch  is  to  the  village  folk,  one  and  all! 
May  Heaven  and  a  thankless  soil  long  preserve  it  and  them 
from  an  enclosure  under  the  Act ! 

There  is  much  temptation  lying  about,  though,  for  the 
enclosers  of  the  world.  The  rough  common  land,  you  see, 
stretches  over  the  whole  of  the  knoll,  and  down  to  its  base, 
and  away  along  the  hills  behind,  of  which  the  Hawk's 
Lynch  is  an  an  outlying  spur.  Rough  common  land,  broken 
only  by  pine  woods  of  a  few  acres  each  in  extent,  an  occasional 
woodman's  or  squatter's  cottage  and  little  patch  of  attempted 
garden.  But  immediately  below,  and  on  each  flank  of  the  spur, 
and  half-way  up  the  slopes,  come  small  farm  enclosures  break- 
ing here  and  there  the  belt  of  woodlands,  which  generally  lies 
between  the  rough,  wild  upland  and  the  cultivated  country  be- 
low. As  you  stand  on  the  knoll  you  can  see  the  common  land 
just  below  you  at  its  foot  narrow  into  a  mere  road,  with  a  bor- 
der of  waste  on  each  side,  which  runs  into  Englebourn  Street. 
At  the  end  of  the  straggling  village  stands  the  church  with  its 
square  tower,  a  lofty  gray  stone  building,  with  bits  of  fine  dec- 
orated architecture  about  it,  but  much  of  churchwarden  Gothic 
supervening.  The  churchyard  is  large,  and  the  graves,  as  you 
can  see  plainly,  even  from  this  distance,  are  all  crowded  on  the 
southern  side.  The  rector's  sheep  are  feeding  in  the  northern 
part  nearest  to  us,  and  a  small  gate  at  one  corner  opens  into 
his  garden.  The  rectory  looks  large  and  comfortable,  and  its 
grounds  well  cared  for  and  extensive,  with  a  rookery  of  elms 
at  the  lawn's  end.  It  is  the  chief  house  of  the  place,  for  there 
is  no  resident  squire.  The  principal  street  contains  a  few 
shops,  some  dozen,  perhaps,  in  all :  and  several  farmhouses  lie 
a  little  back  from  it,  with  gardens  in  front,  and  yards  and  barns 


NEW  GROUND.  191 

and  orchards  behind  ;  and  there  are  two  public  houses.  The 
other  dwellings  are  mere  cottages,  and  very  bad  ones  for  the 
most  part,  with  floors  below  the  level  of  the  street.  Almost 
every  house  in  the  village  is  thatched,  which  adds  to  the  beauty, 
though  not  to  the  comfort,  of  the  place.  The  rest  of  the  pop- 
ulation who  do  not  live  in  the  street  are  dotted  about  the  neigh- 
boring lanes,  chiefly  towards  the  west,  on  our  right  as  we  look 
down  from  the  Hawk's  Lynch.  On  this  side  the  country  is 
more  open,  and  here  most  of  the  farmers  live,  as  we  may  see  by 
the  number  of  homes  eads.  And  there  is  a  small  brook  on  that 
side,  too,  which  with  careful  damming  is  made  to  turn  a  mill, 
there  where  you  see  the  clurnp  of  poplars.  On  our  left  as  we 
look  down,  the  country  to  the  east  of  the  village,  is  thickly 
wooded ;  but  we  can  see  that  there  is  a  village  green  on  that 
side,  and  a  few  scattered  cottages,  the  furthest  of  which  stands 
looking  out  like  a  little  white  eye,  from  the  end  of  a  dense  copse. 
Beyond  it  there  is  no  sign  of  habitation  for  some  two  miles  ; 
then  you  can  see  the  tall  chimneys  of  a  great  house,  and  a  well- 
timbered  park  round  it.  The  Grange  is  not  in  Englebourn  par- 
ish— happily  for  that  parish,  one  is  sorry  to  remark.  It  must 
be  a  very  bad  squire  who  does  not  do  more  good  than  harm  by 
living  in  a  country  village.  But  there  are  very  bad  squires,  and 
the  owner  of  the  Grange  is  one  of  them.  He  is,  however,  for  the 
most  part,  an  absentee,  so  that  we  are  little  concerned  with 
him,  and  in  fact,  have  only  to  notice  this  one  of  his  bad  habits, 
that  he  keeps  that  long  belt  of  woodlands,  which  runs  into 
Englebourn  parish,  and  comes  almost  up  to  the  village,  full  of 
hares  and  pheasants.  He  has  only  succeeded  to  the  property 
some  three  or  four  years,  and  yet  the  head  of  game  on  the  es- 
tate, and  above  all  in  the  woods,  has  trebled  or  quadrupled, 
Pheasants  by  hundreds  are  reared  under  hens,  from  eggs  bought 
in  London,  and  run  about  the  keepers'  houses  as  tame  as  barn- 
door fowls  all  the  summer.  When  the  first  party  comes  down 
for  the  first  battue,  early  in  October,  it  is  often  as  much  as  the 
beaters  can  do  to  persuade  these  pampered  fowls  that  they  are 
wild  game,  whose  duty  it  is  to  get  up  and  fly  away  and  be  shot 
at.  However,  they  soon  learn  more  of  the  world, — such  of 
them,  at  least,  as  are  not  slam, — and  are  unmistakable  wild 
birds  in  a  few  days.  Then  they  take  to  roosting  further  from 
their  old  haunts,  more  in  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  and  the 
time  comes  for  others  beside  the  squire's  guests  to  take  their 
education  in  hand,  and  teach  pheasants  at  least  that  they  are 
no  native  British  birds.  These  are  a  wild  set,  living  scattered 
about  the  wild  country  ;  turf-cutters,  broom-makers,  squatters, 
with  indefinite  occupations  and  nameless  habits,  a  race  hated 


192  TOM  BliO  \VN  A  T  OXFORD. 

of  keepers  and  constables.  These  have  increased  and  flourish* 
ed  of  late  years;  and,  notwithstanding  the  imprisonments  and 
transportations  which  deprive  them  periodically  of  the  most  en- 
terprising members  of  their  community,  one  and  all  give  thanks 
for  the  day  when  the  owner  of  the  Grange  took  to  pheasant 
breeding.  If  the  demoralization  stopped  with  them,  little  harm 
might  come  of  it,  as  they  would  steal  fowls  in  the  homesteads 
if  there  were  no  pheasants  in  the  woods — which  latter  are  less 
dangerous  to  get,  and  worth  more  when  gotten.  But,  unhap- 
pily, this  method  of  earning  a  livelihood  has  strong  attractions, 
and  is  catching;  and  the  cases  of  farm  laborers  Avho  get  into 
trouble  about  game  are  more  frequent,  season  by  season,  in  the 
neighboring  parishes,  and  Englebourn  is  no  better  than  the 
rest.  And  the  men  are  not  likely  to  be  much  discouraged  from 
these  practices,  or  taught  better  by  the  farmers ;  for,  if  there 
is  one  thing  more  than  another  that  drives  that  sturdy  set  of 
men,  the  Englebourn  yeomen,  into  a  frenzy,  it  is  talk  of  the 
game  in  the  Grange  covers.  Not  that  they  dislike  sport ;  they 
like  it  too  well,  and,  moreover,  have  been  used  to  their  fair 
share  of  it.  For  the  late  squire  left  the  game  entirely  in  their 
hands.  "You  know  best  how  much  game  your  land  will  carry 
without  serious  damage  to  the  crops,"  he  used  to  say.  "  1  like 
to  show  my  friends  a  fair  day's  sport  when  they  are  with  me, 
and  to  have  enough  game  to  supply  the  house  and  make  a  few 
presents.  Beyond  that  it  is  no  affair  of  mine.  You  can  course 
whenever  you  like ;  and  let  me  know  when  you  want  a  day's 
shooting,  and  you  shall  have  it."  Under  this  system  the  yeo- 
men became  keen  sportsmen  ;  they  and  all  their  laborers  took 
an  interest  in  preserving,  and  the  whole  district  would  have 
risen  on  a  poacher.  The  keeper's  place  became  a  sinecure,  and 
the  squire  had  as  much  game  as  he  wanted  without  expense, 
and  was,  moreover,  the  most  popular  man  in  the  county.  Even 
after  the  new  man  came,  and  ail  was  changed,  that  mere  revoca- 
tion of  their  sporting  liberties,  and  the  increase  of  game,  un- 
popular as  these  things  were,  would  not  alone  have  made  the 
farmers  so  bitter,  and  have  raised  that  sense  of  outraged  justice 
in  them.  But  with  these  changes  came  in  a  custom  new  in  the 
country — the  custom  of  selling  the  game.  At  first  the  report 
was  not  believed  ;  but  soon  it  became  notorious  that  no  head 
of  game  from  the  Grange  estates  was  ever  given  away,  that 
not  only  did  the  tenants  never  get  a  brace  of  birds  or  a  hare, 
or  the  laborers  a  rabbit,  but  not  one  of  the  gentlemen  who 
helped  to  kill  the  game  ever  found  any  of  the  bag  in  his  dog- 
cart after  the  day's  shooting.  Nay,  so  shameless  had  the  sys- 
tem become,  and  so  highly  was  the  art  of  turning  the  game  to 


NEW  GROUND.  193 

account  cultivated  at  the  Grange,  that  the  keepers  sold  pow- 
der and  shot  to  any  of  the  guests  who  had  emptied  their  own 
belts  or  flasks  at  something  over  the  market  retail  price.  The 
lio-ht  cart  drove  to  the  market-town  twice  a  week  in  the  season, 
loaded  heavily  with  game,  but  more  heavily  with  the  hatred 
and  scorn  of  the  farmers ;  and,  if  deep  and  bitter  curses  could 
break  patent  axles  or  necks,  the  new  squire  and  his  game-cart 
would  not  long  have  vexed  the  country  side.  As  it  was,  not  a 
.nan  but  his  own  tenants  would  salute  him  in  the  market-place ; 
and  these  repaid  themselves  for  the  unwilling  courtesy  by  bit- 
ter reflections  on  a  squire  who  was  mean  enough  to  pay  his 
butcher's  and  poulterer's  bill  out  of  their  pockets. 

Alas,  that  the  manly  instinct  of  sport  which  is  so  strong  in 
all  of  us  Englishmen — which  sends  Oswell's  single-handed 
against  the  mightiest  beasts  that  walk  the  earth,  and  takes  the 
poor  cockney  journeyman  out  a  ten  miles'  walk  almost  before 
daylight  on  the  rare  summer  holiday  mornings,  to  angle  with 
rude  tackle  in  reservoir  or  canal — should  be  dragged  through 
such  mire  as  this  in  many  an  English  shire  in  our  day.  If 
English  landlords  want  to  go  on  shooting  game  much  longer, 
they  must  give  up  selling  it.  For  if  selling  game  becomes  the 
rule,  and  not  the  exception  (as  it  seems  likely  to  do  before  long), 
r^ood-by  to  sport  in  England.  Every  man  who  loves  his  country 
more  than  his  pleasure  or  his  pocket — and,  thank  God,  that  in- 
cludes the  great  majority  of  us  yet,  however  much  we  may 
delight  in  guns  and  rod,  let  Mr.  Bright  and  every  demagogue  in 
the  land  say  what  they  please — will  cry,  "  Down  with  it,"  and 
lend  a  hand  to  put  it  down  forever. 

But  to  return  to  our  perch  on  the  Hawk's  Lynch  above 
Englebourn  village.  As  I  was  saying  just  now,  when  the  sight 
of  the  distant  Grange  and  its  woods  interrupted  me,  there  is 
no  squire  living  here.  The  rector  is  the  fourth  of  his  race  who 
holds  the  family  living — a  kind,  easy-going,  gentlemanly  old  man, 
a  Doctor  of  Divinity,  as  becomes  his  position,  though  he  only 
went  into  orders  because  there  was  the  living  ready  for  him. 
In  his  day  he  had  been  a  good  magistrate  and  neighbor,  living 
with,  and  much  in  the  same  way  as,  the  squires  round  about ! 
But  his  contemporaries  had  dropped  off  one  by  one;  his  own 
health  had  long  been  failing ;  his  wife  was  dead ;  and  the  young 
generation  did  not  seek  him.  His  work  and  the  parish  had  no 
real  hold  on  him ;  so  he  had  nothing  to  fall  back  on,  and  had 
become  a  confirmed  invalid,  seldom  leaving  the  house  and  garden 
even  to  go  to  church,  and  thinking  more  of  his  dinner  and  his 
health  than  of  all  other  things  in  earth  or  heaven. 

The   only   child  who  remained  at   home  with  him   was  a 


1 94  TCLV  BBO  WN  A  T  OXFORD. 

daughter,  a  girl  of  nineteen  or  thereabouts,  whose  acquaintance 
we  shall  make  presently,  and  who  was  doing  all  that  a  good  heart 
and  sound  head  prompted  in  nursing  an  old  hypochondriac  and 
filling  his  place  in  the  parish.  But  though  the  old  man  was  weak 
and  selfish,  he  was  kind  in  his  way,  and  ready  to  give  freely, 
or  to  do  anything  which  his  daughter  suggested  for  the  good 
of  his  people,  provided  the  trouble  were  taken  off  his  shoulders. 
•In  the  year  before  our  tale  opens  he  had  allowed  some  thirtj 
'acres  of  his  glebe  to  be  parcelled  out  in  allotments  amongst 
the  poor ;  and  his  daughter  spent  almost  what  she  pleased  in 
clothing-clubs,  and  sick-clubs,  and  the  school,  without  a  word 
from  him.  Whenever  he  did  remonstrate,  she  managed  to  get 
what  she  wanted  out  of  the  house-money,  or  her  own  allowance. 

We  must  make  acquaintance  with  such  other  of  the  inhabitants 
as  it  concerns  us  to  know  in  the  course  of  the  story  ;  for  it  is 
broad  daylight,  and  the  villagers  will  be  astir  directly.  Folk 
who  go  to  bed  before  nine,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  get  into  the 
habit  of  turning  out  soon  after  the  sun  calls  them.  So  now, 
descending  from  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  we  will  alight  at  the  east 
end  of  Englebourn,  opposite  the  little  white  cottage  which  looks 
out  at  the  end  of  the  great  wood,  near  the  village  green. 

Soon  after  five  on  that  bright  Sunday  morning,  Harry  Win- 
burn  unbolted  the  door  of  his  mother's  cottage,  and  stepped  out 
in  his  shirt  sleeves  on  to  the  little  walk  in  front,  paved  with 
pebbles.  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  will  recognize  the  name 
of  an  old  acquaintance,  and  wonder  how  he  got  here ;  so  I  shall 
explain  at  once.  Soon  after  our  hero  went  back  to  school, 
Harry's  father  had  died  of  a  fever.  He  had  been  a  journey- 
man blacksmith,  and  in  the  receipt  consequently,  of  rather  better 
wages  then  generally  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  peasantry,  but 
not  enough  to  leave  much  of  a  margin  over  current  expenditure. 
Moreover,  the  Winburns  had  always  been  open-handed  with 
whatever  money  they  had  ;  so  that  all  he  left  for  his  widow 
and  child,  of  worldly  goods,  was  their  "  few  sticks"  of  furniture, 
£5  in  the  Savings-bank,  and  the  money  from  his  burial-club, 
which  was  not  more  than  enough  to  give  him  a  creditable 
funeral — that  object  of  honorable  ambition  to  all  the  independ- 
ent poor.  He  left,  however,  another  inheritance  to  them,  which 
is,  in  price,  above  rubies,  neither  shall  silver  be  named  in  com- 
parison thereof, — the  inheritance  of  an  honest  name,  of  which 
his  widow  was  proud,  and  which  was  not  likely  to  suffer  in 
her  hands. 

After  the  funeral,  she  removed  to  Englebourn,  her  own  na- 
tive village,  and  kept  her  old  father's  house,  till  his  death.  He 
was  one  of  the  woodmen  to  the  Grange,  and  lived  in  the  cot- 


NEW  GROUNL.  195 

tage  at  the  corner  of  the  wood  in  which  his  work  lay.  When 
he,  too,  died,  hard  times  came  on  Widow  Winburn.  The 
steward  allowed  her  to  keep  on  at  the  cottage.  The  rent  was  a 
sore  burden  to  her,  but  she  would  sooner  have  starved  than 
leave  it.  Parish  relief  was  out  of  the  question  for  her  father's 
child  and  her  husband's  widow;  so  she  turned  her  hand  to 
every  odd  job  which  offered,  and  went  to  work  in  the  fields 
when  nothing  else  could  be  had.  Whenever  there  was  sick- 
ness in  the  place,  she  was  an  untiring  nurse;  and  at  one  time, 
for  some  nine  months,  she  took  the  office  of  postman,  and 
walked  daily  some  nine  miles  through  a  severe  winter.  The 
fatigue  and  exposure  had  broken  down  her  health,  and  made 
her  an  old  woman  before  her  time.  At  last,  in  a  lucky  hour, 
the  doctor  came  to  hear  of  her  praiseworthy  struggles,  and 
gave  her  the  rectory  washing,  which  had  made  her  life  a  com- 
paratively easy  one  again. 

During  all  this  time  her  poor  neighbors  had  stood  by  her  as 
the  poor  do  stand  by  one  another,  helping  her  in  numberless 
small  ways,  so  that  she  had  been  able  to  realize  the  great  ob- 
ject of  her  life,  and  keep  Harry  at  school  till  he  was  nearly 
fourteen.  By  this  time  he  had  learned  all  that  the  village  peda- 
gogue could  teach,  and  had,  in  fact,  become  an  object  of 
mingled  pride  and  jealousy  to  that  worthy  man,  who  had  his 
misgivings  lest  Harry's  fame  as  a  scholar  should  eclipse  his 
own  before  many  years  were  over. 

Mrs.  Winburn's  character  was  so  good,  that  no  sooner  was 
her  son  ready  for  a  place  than  a  place  was  ready  for  him ;  he 
stepped  at  once  into  the  dignity  of  carter's  boy,  and  his  earn- 
ings, when  added  to  his  mother's,  made  them  comfortable 
enough.  Of  course,  she  was  wrapped  up  in  him,  and  believed  that 
there  was  no  such  boy  in  the  parish.  And  indeed  she  was  near- 
er the  truth  than  most  mothers,  for  he  soon  grew  into  a  famous 
specimen  of  a  countryman;  tall  and  lithe, full  of  nervous 
strength,  and  not  yet  bowed  down  or  stiffened  by  the  constant 
toil  of  a  laborer's  daily  life.  In  these  matters,  however,  he  had 
rivals  in  the  village;  but  in  intellectual  accomplishments  he 
was  unrivalled.  He  was  full  of  learning  according  to  the  vil- 
lage standard,  could  write  and  cipher  well,  was  fond  of  reading 
such  books  as  came  in  his  way,  and  spoke  his  native  English 
without  an  accent.  He  is  one-and-twenty  at  the  time,  when 
our  story  takes  him  up,  a  thoroughly  skilled  laborer,  the  best 
hedger  and  ditcher  in  the  parish  ;  and  when  his  blood  is  up,  he 
can  shear  twenty  sheep  in  a  day  without  razing  the  skin,  or 
mow  for  sixteen  hours  at  a  stretch,  with  rests  of  half  an  hour 
for  meals  twice  in  a  day. 


196  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Harry  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  for  a  minute,  as  he 
stood  outside  the  cottage  drinking  in  the  fresh  pure  air,  laden 
with  the  scent  of  the  honeysuckle  which  he  had  trained  over 
the  porch,  and  listening  to  the  chorus  of  linnets  and  finches 
from  the  copse  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  then  set  about 
the  household  duties,  which  he  always  made  it  a  point  of 
honor  to  attend  to  himself  on  Sundays.  First  he  unshuttered 
the  little  lattice-window  of  the  room  on  the  ground-floor ;  a 
simple  operation  enough,  for  the  shutter  was  a  mere  wooden 
flap,  which  was  closed  over  the  window  at  night,  and  bolted 
with  a  wooden  bolt  on  the  outside,  and  thrown  back  against 
the  wall  in  the  daytime.  Any  one  who  would  could  have 
opened  it  at  any  moment  of  the  night ;  but  the  poor  sleep 
sound  without  bolts.  Then  he  took  the  one  old  bucket  of  the 
establishment,  and  strode  away  to  the  well  on  the  village-green,, 
and  filled  it  with  clear  cold  water,  doing  the  same  kind  office 
for  the  vessels  of  two  or  three  rosy  little  damsels  and  boys,  oi 
ages  varying  from  ten  to  fourteen,  who  were  already  astir,  and 
to  whom  the  winding-up  of  the  parish  chain  and  bucket  would 
have  been  a  work  of  difficulty.  Returning  to  the  cottage,  he 
proceeded  to  fill  his  mother's  kettle,  sweep  the  hearth,  strike  a 
light,  and  make  up  the  fire  with  a  faggot  from  the  little  stack 
in  the  corner  of  the  garden.  Then  he  hauled  the  three-legged 
round  table  before  the  fire,  and  dusted  it  carefully  over,  and 
laid  out  the  black  japan  tea-tray  with  two  delf  cups  and  saucers 
of  gorgeous  pattern,  and  diminutive  plates  to  match,  and 
placed  the  sugar  and  slop  basins,  the  big  loaf  and  small  piece 
of  salt  butter,  in  their  accustomed  places,  and  the  little  black 
teapot  on  the  hob  to  get  properly  warm.  There  was  little 
more  to  be  done  indoors,  for  the  furniture  was  scanty  enough  ; 
but  everything  in  turn  received  its  fair  share  of  attention, 
and  the  little  room,  with  its  sunken  tiled  floor  and  yellow- 
washed  walls,  looked  cheerful  and  homely.  Then  Harry  turned 
his  attention  to  the  shed  of  his  own  contriving  which  stood 
beside  the  faggot-stack,  and  from  which  expostulatory  and 
plaintive  grunts  had  been  issuing  ever  since  his  first  appear- 
ance at  the  door,  telling  of  a  faithful  and  useful  friend  who 
was  sharp  set  on  Sunday  mornings,  and  desired  his  poor  break- 
fast, and  to  be  dismissed  for  the  day  to  pick  up  the  rest  of  his 
livelihood  with  his  brethren  porkers  of  the  village  on  the 
green  and  in  the  lanes.  Harry  served  out  to  the  porker  the 
poor  mess  which  the  wash  of  the  cottage  and  the  odds  and 
ends  of  the  little  garden  afforded;  which  that  virtuous  animal 
forthwith  began  to  discuss  with  both  fore-feet  in  the  trough, — 
by  way,  I  suppose,  of  adding  to  the  flavor  — while  his  master 


ENGLEBOU11N  VILLAGE.  197 

scratched  him  gently  between  the  ears  and  on  the  back  with  a 
short  stick  till  the  repast  was  concluded.  Then  he  opened  the 
door  of  the  sty,  and  the  grateful  animal  rushed  out  into  the 
lane,  and  away  to  the  green  with  a  joyful  squeal  and  flirt  of 
his  hind  quarters  in  the  air ;  and  Harry,  after  picking  a  bunch 
of  wall-flowers,  and  pansies,  and  hyacinths,  a  line  of  which 
flowers  skirted  the  narrow  garden  walk,  and  putting  them  in  a 
long-necked  glass  which  he  took  from  the  mantelpiece,  pro- 
ceeded to  his  morning  ablutions,  ample  materials  for  which  re- 
mained at  the  bottom  of  the  family  bucket,  which  he  had  pul 
down  on  a  little  bench  by  the  side  of  the  porch.  These  fin- 
ished, he  retired  indoors  to  shave  and  dress  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BNGLEBOUEN  VILLAGE. 

DAME  WINBTJRN  was  not  long  after  her  son,  and  they  sat 
down  together  to  breakfast  in  their  best  Sunday  clothes — she, 
in  plain  large  white  cap,  which  covered  all  but  a  line  of  gray 
hair,  a  black  stuff  gown  reaching  to  neck  and  wrists,  and  small 
silk  neckerchief  put  on  like  a  shawl ;  a  thin,  almost  gaunt,  old 
woman,  whom  the  years  had  not  used  tenderly,  and  who 
showed  marks  of  their  usage — but  a  resolute,  high-couraged 
soul,  who  had  met  hard  times  in  the  face,  and  could  meet 
them  again  if  need  were.  She  spoke  in  broad  Berkshire,  and 
was  otherwise  a  homely  body,  but  self-possessed  and  without  a 
shade  of  real  vulgarity  in  her  composition. 

The  widow  looked  with  some  anxiety  at  Harry  as  he  took 
his  seat.  Although  something  of  a  rustic  dandy,  of  late  he  had 
not  been  so  careful  in  this  matter  as  usual ;  but,  in  consequence 
of  her  reproaches,  on  this  Sunday  there  was  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  His  black  velveteen  shooting-coat  and  cotton  plush 
waistcoat,  his  brown  corduroy  knee  breeches  and  gaiters  sat 
on  him  well,  and  gave  the  world  assurance  of  a  well-to-do  man, 
for  few  of  the  Englebourn  laborers  rose  above  smock-frocks 
and  fustian  trousers.  He  wore  a  blue  bird's-eye  handkerchief 
round  his  neck,  and  his  shirt,  though  coarse  in  texture,  was  as 
white  as  the  sun  and  the  best  laundress  in  Englebourn  could 
manage  to  bleach  it.  There  was  nothing  to  find  fault  with  in 
his  dress  therefore,  but  still  his  mother  did  not  feel  quite  com- 
fortable as  she  took  stealthy  glances  at  him.  Harry  was  natu- 
rally rather  a  reserved  fellow  and  did  not  make  much  conver- 


198  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

sation  himself,  and  his  mother  felt  a  little  embarrassed  on  this 
particular  morning. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  until  Dame  Winburn  had  finished 
her  first  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  had  sipped  the  greater 
parto  f  her  second  dish  of  tea  out  of  her  saucer,  that  she  broke 
silence. 

"  I  minded  thy  business  last  night,  Harry,  when  I  wur  up 
at  the  rectory  about  the  washin'.  It's  my  belief  as  thou'lt  get 
t'other  'lotment  next  quarter-day.  The  doctor  spoke  very 
kind  about  it,  and  said  as  how  he  heerd  as  high  a  character  o' 
thee,  young  as  thee  bist,  as  of  are'  a  man  in  the  parish,  and  as 
how  he  wur  set  on  lettin'  the  lots  to  they  as'd  do  best  by 
'em ;  only  he  said  as  the  farmers  went  agin  givin'  more  nor  an 
acre  to  any  man  as  worked  for  them,  and  the  doctor,  you  see. 
he  don't  like  to  go  altogether  agin  the  vestry  folk." 

"  What  business  is  it  o'  theirs,"  said  Harry,  "  so  long  as  they 
get  their  own  work  done  ?  There's  scarce  one  on  'em  as  hasn't 
more  land  already  nor  he  can  keep  as  should  be,  and  for  all 
that  they  want  to  snap  up  every  bit  as  falls  vacant,  so  as  no 
poor  man  shall  get  it." 

"  'Tis  mostly  so  with  them  as  has,  said  his  mother,  with  a 
half-puzzled  look ;  "  Scripture  says  as  to  them  shall  be  given, 
and  they  shall  have  more  abundant."  Dame  Winburn  spoke 
hesitatingly,  and  looked  doubtfully  at  Harry,  as  a  person  who 
has  shot  with  a  sti'ange  gun,  and  knows  not  what  effect  the 
bolt  may  have.  Harry  Avas  brought  up  all  standing  by  this 
unexpected  quotation  of  his  mother ;  but,  after  thinking  for  a 
few  moments  while  he  cut  himself  a  slice  of  bread,  replied, — 

"It  don't  say  as  those  shall  have  more  that  can't  use  what 
they've  got  already.  'Tis  a  deal  more  like  Naboth's  vineyard 
for  aught  as  I  can  see.  But  'tis  little  odds  to  me  which  way 
it  goes.'1 

"  How  canst  talk  so,  Harry  ? "  said  his  mother,  reproach- 
fully ;  "  thou  knows't  thou  wast  set  on  it  last  fall,  like  a  wapse 
on  sugar.  Why,  scarce  a  day  passed  but  thou  wast  up  to  the 
rectory,  to  see  the  doctor  about  it ;  and  now  thou'rt  like  to  get 
it,  thou'lt  not  go  against  'un." 

Harry  looked  out  at  the  open  door,  without  answering.  It 
was  quite  true  that,  in  the  last  autumn,  he  had  been  very  anx- 
ious to  get  as  large  an  allotment  as  he  could  into  his  own  hands, 
and  that  he  had  been  forever  up  towards  the  rectory,  but 
perhaps  not  always  on  the  allotment  business.  He  was  natu- 
rally a  self-reliant,  shrewd  fellow,  and  felt  that  if  he  could  put 
his  hand  on  three  or  four  acres  of  land,  he  could  soon  make 
himself  independent  of  the  farmers.  He  knew  that  at  harvest- 


ENGLEBOUBN  VILLAGE.  199 

times,  and  whenever  there  was  a  pinch  for  good  laborers,  they 
would  be  glad  enough  to  have  him ;  while  at  other  times,  with 
a  few  acres  of  his  own,  he  would  be  his  own  master,  and  could 
do  much  better  for  himself.  So  he  had  put  his  name  down 
first  on  the  doctor's  lists,  taken  the  largest  lot  he  could  get, 
and  worked  it  so  well,  that  his  crops,  amongst  others,  had  been 
a  sort  of  village-show  last  harvest-time.  Many  of  the  neigh- 
boring allotments  stood  out  in  sad  contrast  to  those  of  Harry 
and  the  more  energetic  of  the  peasantry,  and  lay  by  the  side 
of  these  latter,  only  half  worked  and  full  of  weeds,  and  the 
rent  was  never  ready.  It  was  worse  than  useless  to  let  matters 
go  on  thus,  and  the  question  arose,  what  was  to  be  done  with 
the  neglected  lots.  Harry,  and  all  the  men  like  him,  applied 
at  once  for  them  ;  and  their  eagerness  to  get  them  had  roused 
some  natural  jealousy  amongst  the  farmers,  who  began  to  fore- 
see that  the  new  system  might  shortly  leave  them  with  none 
but  the  worst  laborers.  So  the  vestry  had  pressed  on  the 
doctor,  as  Dame  Winburn  said,  not  to  let  any  man  have  more 
than  an  acre,  or  an  acre  and  a  half ;  and  the  well-meaning, 
easy-going,  invalid  old  man  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  what  to 
do.  So  here  was  May  come  again,  and  the  neglected  lots  were 
still  in  the  nominal  occupation  of  the  idlers.  The  doctor  got 
no  rent,  and  was  annoyed  at  the  partial  failure  of  a  scheme 
which  he  had  not  indeed  originated,  but  for  which  he  had 
taken  much  credit  to  himself.  The  negligent  occupiers  grumbled 
that  they  were  not  allowed  a  drawback  for  manure,  and  that 
no  pigstys  were  put  up  for  them.  "'Twas  allers  understood 
so,"  they  maintained,  "  they'd  never  ha'  took  to  the  lots  but 
for  that."  The  good  men  grumbled  that  it  would  be  too  late 
now  for  them  to  do  more  than  clean  the  lots  of  weeds  this 
year.  The  farmers  grumbled  that  it  was  always  understood 
no  man  should  have  more  than  one  lot.  The  poor  rector  had 
led  his  flock  into  a  miry  place  with  a  vengeance.  People  who 
cannot  make  up  their  minds  breed  trouble  in  other  places 
besides  country  villages.  However  quiet  and  out  of  the  way 
the  place  may  be,  there  is  always  some  quasi  public  topic 
which  stands,  to  the  rural  Englishman,  in  the  place  of  treaty, 
or  budget,  or  reform-bill.  So  the  great  allotment  question,  for 
the  time,  was  that  which  exercised  the  minds  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Englebourn ;  and  until  lately  no  one  had  taken  a  keener 
interest  in  it  than  Harry  Winburn.  But  that  interest  had  now 
much  abated,  and  so  Harry  looked  through  the  cottage-door, 
instead  of  answering  his  mother. 

"  'Tis  my  belief  as  you  med  a'most  hev  it  for  the  axin '," 
Dame  Winburn  began  again,  when  she  found  that  he  would 


200  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

not  re-open  the  subject  himself.  "  The  young  missus  said  as 
much  to  me  herself  last  night.  Ah !  to  be  sure,  things'd  go 
better  if  she  had  the  guidin'  on  'em." 

"  I'm  not  going  after  it  any  more,  mother.  We  can  keep 
the  bits  o'  sticks  here  together  without  it  while  you  be  alive ; 
and  if  anything  was  to  happen  to  you,  I  don't  think  I  should 
stay  in  these  parts.  But  it  don't  matter  what  becomes  o'  me ; 
I  can  earn  a  livelihood  anywhere." 

Dame  Winburn  paused  a  moment,  before  answering,  to 
subdue  her  vexation,  and  then  said,  "  How  can  'ee  let  hank- 
erin'  arter  a  lass  take  the  heart  out  o'  thee  so  ?  Hold  up  thy 
head,  and  act  a  bit  measterful.  The  more  thou  makest  o' 
thyself,  the  more  like  thou  art  to  win." 

"  Did  you  hear  aught  of  her,  mother,  last  night  ? "  replied 
Harry,  taking  advantage  of  this  ungracious  opening  to  speak  of 
the  subject  which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  I  heerd  she  wur  going  on  well,"  said  his  mother. 

"No  likelihood  of  her  comin'  home  ?  " 

"Not  as  I  could  make  out.  Why,  she  hevn't  been  gone  not 
four  months.  Now,  do'ee  pluck  up  a  bit,  Harry ;  and  be  more 
like  thyself." 

"  Why,  mother,  I've  not  missed  a  day's  work  since  Christ- 
mas; so  there  aint  much  to  find  fault  with." 

"  Nay,  Harry,  'tisn't  thy  work.  Thou  wert  always  good  at 
thy  work,  praise  God.  Thou'rt  thy  father's  own  son  for  that. 
But  thou  dosen't  keep  about  like,  and  take  thy  place  wi'  the 
lave  on  'em  since  Christmas.  Thou  look'st  haggard  at  times, 
and  folk'll  see  it,  and  talk  about  thee  afore  long." 

"Let  'em  talk.  I  mind  their  talk  no  more  than  last  year's 
wind,"  said  Harry,  abruptly. 

•'  But  thy  old  mother  does,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with 
eyes  full  of  pride  and  love ;  and  so  Harry,  who  was  a  right 
good  son,  began  to  inquire  what  it  was  which  was  specially 
weighing  on  his  mother's  mind,  determined  to  do  anything  in 
reason  to  replace  her  on  the  little  harmless  social  pinnacle  from 
which  she  was  wont  to  look  down  on  all  the  other  mothers  and 
sons  of  the  parish.  He  soon  found  out  that  her  present  griev- 
ance arose  from  his  having  neglected  his  place  as  ringer  of  the 
heavy  bell  in  the  village  peal  on  the  two  preceding  Sundays ; 
and,  as  this  post  was  in  some  sort  corresponding  to  stroke  of 
the  boat  at  Oxford,  her  anxiety  was  reasonable  enough.  So 
Harry  promised  to  go  to  ringing  in  good  time  that  morning, 
and  then  set  about  little  odds  and  ends  of  jobs  till  it  would  be 
time  to  start.  Dame  Winburn  went  to  her  cooking  and  other 
household  duties,  which  were  pretty  well  got  under  when  her 


ENGLEBOUBN  VILLAGE.  201 

sou  took  his  hat  and  started  for  the  belfry.  She  stood  at  the 
door  with  a  half  peeled  potato  in  one  hand,  shading  her  eyes 
with  the  other,  as  she  watched  him  striding  along  the  raised 
footpath  under  the  elms,  when  the  sound  of  light  footsteps  and 
pleasant  voices  coming  up  from  the  other  direction  made  her 
turn  round,  and  drop  a  courtesy  as  the  rector's  daughter  and 
another  young  lady  stopped  at  her  door. 

"  Good  morning,  Betty,"  said  the  former ;  "  here's  a  bright 
Sunday  morning  at  last;  isn't  it?" 

" 'Tis,  indeed,  miss;  but  where  hev'ee  been  to?" 

"Oh,  we've  only  been  for  a  little  walk  before  school-time. 
This  is  my  cousin,  Betty.  She  hasn't  been  atEnglebourn  since 
she  was  quite  a  child ;  so  I've  been  taking  her  to  the  Hawk's 
Lynch  to  see  our  view." 

"  And  you  can't  think  how  I  have  enjoyed  it,"  said  her 
cousin;  "it  is  so  still  and  beautiful." 

"  I've  heerd  say  as  there  ain't  no  such  a  place  for  thretty 
mile  round,"  said  Betty,  proudly.  "  But  do  'ee  come  in  tho  , 
and  sit'ee  down  a  bit,"  she  added,  bustling  inside  her  door, 
and  beginning  to  rub  down  a  chair  with  her  apron ;  "  'tis  a 
smart  step  for  gentlefolk  to  walk  afore  church."  Betty's 
notions  of  the  walking  powers  of  gentlefolk  were  very  limited. 

"  No,  thank  you,  we  must  be  getting  on,"  said  Miss  Winter ; 
"  but  how  lovely  your  flowers  are.  Look,  Mary,  did  you  ever 
see  such  double  pansies?  We've  nothing  like  them  at  the 
rectory  ?  " 

"Do'ee  take  some,"  said  Betty,  emerging  again,  and  begin- 
ning to  pluck  a  handful  of  her  finest  flowers ;  "  'tis  all  our 
Harry's  doing ;  he's  mazin'  partickler  about  seeds." 

"  He  seems  to  make  everything  thrive,  Betty.  There,  that's 
plenty,  thank  you.  We  won't  take  many,  for  fear  they  should 
fade  before  church  is  over." 

"Oh,  dont'ee  be  afeared,  there's  plenty  more  ;  and  you  be  as 
welcome  as  the  day." 

Betty  never  said  a  truer  word  ;  she  was  one  of  the  real  open- 
handed  sort,  who  are  found  mostly  amongst  those  who  have 
the  least  to  give.  They  or  any  one  else  were  welcome  to  the 
best  she  had. 

So  the  young  ladies  took  the  flowers,  and  passed  on  towards 
the  Sunday  school. 

The  rector's  daughter  might  have  been  a  year  or  so  older 
than  her  companion ;  she  looked  more.  Her  position  in  the 
village  had  been  one  of  much  anxiety,  and  she  was  fast  getting 
an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  The  other  young  lady  was  a 
slip  of  a  girl  just  coming  out;  in  fact,  this  was  the  first  visit 


202  TOA   BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

which  she  had  ever  paid  out  of  leading  strings.  She  had  lived 
in  a  happy  home,  where  she  had  always  been  trusted  and  loved, 
and  perhaps  a  thought  too  much  petted. 

There  are  some  natures  which  attract  petting ;  you  can't 
help  doing  your  best  to  spoil  them  in  this  way,  and  it  is  satis- 
factory therefore  to  know  (as  the  fact  is)  that  they  are  just  the 
•nes  which  cannot  be  so  spoilt. 

Miss  Mary  was  one  of  these.  Trustful,  for  she  had  never 
been  tricked ;  fearless,  for  she  had  never  been  cowed  ;  pure 
and  bright  as  the  Englebourn  brook  at  fifty  yards  from  its 
parent  spring  in  the  chalk,  for  she  had  a  pure  and  bright 
nature,  and  had  come  in  contact  as  yet  with  nothing  which 
could  soil  or  cast  a  shadow  !  What  wonder  that  her  life  gave 
forth  light  and  music  as  it  glided  on,  and  that  every  one  who 
knew  her  was  eager  to  have  her  with  them,  to  warm  themselves 
in  the  light  and  rejoice  in  the  music. 

Besides  all  her  other  attractions,  or  in  consequence  of  them 
for  anything  I  know,  she  was  one  of  the  merriest  young  women 
in  the  world,  always  ready  to  bubble  over  and  break  out  into 
clear  laughter  on  the  slightest  provocation.  And  provocation 
had  not  been  wanting  during  the  last  two  days  which  she  had 
spent  with  her  cousin.  As  usual,  she  had  brought  sunshine 
with  her,  and  the  old  doctor  had  half  forgotten  his  numerous 
complaints  and  grievances  for  the  time.  So  the  cloud,  which 
generally  hung  over  the  house,  had  been  partially  lifted,  and 
Mary,  knowing  and  suspecting  nothing  of  the  dark  side  of  lif« 
at  Englebourn  rectory,  rallied  her  cousin  on  her  gravity,  and 
laughed  till  she  cried  at  the  queer  ways  and  talk  of  the  people 
about  the  place. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  Dame  Winburn, 
Mary  began, — 

"  Well,  Katie,  I  can't  say  that  you  have  mended  your  case 
at  all." 

"  Surely,  you  can't  deny  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  .charac- 
ter in  Betty's  face  ?  "  said  Miss  Winter. 

"  Oh,  plenty  of  character ;  all  your  people,  as  soon  as  they 
begin  to  stiffen  a  little  and  get  wrinkles,  seem  to  be  full  of 
character,  and  I  enjoy  it  much  more  than  beauty  ;  but  we  were 
talking  about  beauty,  you  know." 

"Betty's  son  is  the  handsomest  young  man  in  the  parish," 
said  Miss  Winter ;  "  and  I  must  say  I  don't  think  you  could 
find  a  better-looking  one  anywhere." 

"  Then  I  can't  have  seen  him." 

"  Indeed  you  have ;  I  pointed  him  out  to  you  at  the  post- 
office  yesterday.  Don't  you  remember :  he  was  waiting  for  a 
Jetter." 


ENGLEBOUEN  VILLAGE. 

"Oh,  yes!  now  I  remember.  Well,  he  was  better  than 
most.  But  the  faces  of  your  young  people,  in  general,  are  not 
interesting, — I  don't  mean  the  children,  but  the  young  men 
and  women, — and  they  are  awkward  and  clownish  in  their 
manners,  without  the  quaintness  of  the  elder  generation,  who 
are  the  funniest  old  dears  in  the  world." 

"  They  will  all  be  quaint  enough  as  they  get  older.  YoC 
must  remember  the  sort  of  life  they  lead.  They  get  their 
notions  very  slowly,  and  they  must  have  notions  in  their  heads 
before  they  can  show  them  on  their  faces." 

"  Weli,  your  Betty's  son  looked  as  if  he  had  a  notion  oi 
hanging  himself  yesterday." 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  Mary.  I  hear  he  is  desperately  in 
love." 

"  Poor  fellow !  that  makes  a  difference,  of  course.  I  hope 
he  won't  carry  out  his  notion.  Who  is  it  ?  do  you  know  ?  Do 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Our  gardener's  daughter,  I  believe.  Of  course,  I  never 
meddle  with  these  matters,  but  one  can't  help  hearing  the 
servants'  gossip.  I  think  it  likely  to  be  true,  for  he  was  about 
our  premises  at  all  sorts  of  times  until  lately,  and  I  never  see 
him  now  that  she  is  away." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?  "  said  Mary,  who  was  getting  interested. 

"  Yes,  she  is  our  belle.  In  fact,  they  are  the  two  beauties 
of  the  parish." 

"  Fancy  that  cross-grained  old  Simon  having  a  pretty  daugh- 
ter. Oh,  Katie,  look  here,  who  is  this  figure  of  fun  ?  " 

The  figure  of  fun  was  a  middle-aged  man  of  small  stature, 
and  very  bandy-legged,  dressed  in  a  blue  coat  and  brass 
buttons,  and  carrying  a  great  bass-viol  bigger  than  himself,  in 
a  rough  baize  cover.  He  came  out  of  a  footpath  into  the  road 
just  before  them,  and  on  seeing  them  touched  his  hat  to  Miss 
Winter,  and  then  fidgeted  along  with  his  load,  and  jerked  his 
head  in  a  deprecatory  manner  away  from  them  as  he  walked 
on,  with  the  sort  of  look  and  action  which  a  favorite  terrier 
uses  when  his  master  holds  out  a  lighted  cigar  to  his  nose. 
He  was  the  village  tailor  and  constable,  also  the  principal  per- 
former in  the  church-music  which  obtained  in  Englebourn.  In 
the  latter  capacity  he  had  of  late  come  into  collision  with  Miss 
Winter.  For  this  was  another  of  the  questions  which  divided 
the  parish — the  great  church-music  question.  From  time  im- 
memorial, at  least  ever  since  the  gallery  at  the  west  end  had 
been  built,  the  village  psalmody  had  been  in  the  hands  of  the 
occupiers  of  that  Protestant  structure.  In  the  middle  of  the 
front  row  sat  the  musicians,  three  in  number,  who  played 


204  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

respectively  a  bass-viol,  a  fiddle,  and  a  clarionet.  Jn  one  side 
of  them  were  two  or  three  young  women,  who  sang  treble — 
shrill,  ear-piercing  treble, — with  a  strong  nasal  Berkshire  drawl 
in  it.  On  the  other  side  of  the  musicians  sat  the  blacksmith, 
the  wheelwright,  and  other  tradesmen  of  the  place.  Trades- 
man means  in  that  part  of  the  country  what  we  mean  by 
artisan,  and  these  were  naturally  allied  more  with  the  laborers, 
and  consorted  with  them.  So  far  as  church-going  was  con- 
cerned, they  formed  a  sort  of  independent  opposition,  sitting 
in  the  gallery,  instead  of  in  the  nave,  where  the  farmers  and 
the  two  or  three  principal  shopkeepers — the  gieat  landed  and 
commercial  interests — regularly  sat  and  slept,  and  where  the  two 
publicans  occupied  pews,  but  seldom  made  even  the  pretence 
of  worshipping. 

The  rest  of  the  gallery  was  filled  by  the  able-bodied  male 
peasantry.  The  old  worn-out  men  generally  snt  below  in  the 
free  seats ;  the  women  also,  and  some  few  boys.  But  the 
hearts  of  those  latter  wei-e  in  the  gallery, — a  seat  on  the  back 
benches  of  which  was  a  sign  that  they  had  indued  the  toga  m- 
rilis,  and  were  thencefoi'th  free  from  maternal  and  pastoral 
tutelage  in  the  matter  of  church-going.  The  gallery  thus  con- 
stituted had  gradually  usurped  the  psalmody  as  their  particular 
and  special  portion  of  the  service  ;  they  left  the  clerk  and  the 
school  children,  aided  by  such  of  the  aristocracy  below  as  cared 
to  join,  to  do  the  responses ;  but,  when  singing  time  came,  they 
reigned  supreme.  The  slate  on  which  the  Psalms  were  announc- 
ed was  hung  out  from  before  the  centre  of  the  gallery,  and  the 
clerk,  leaving  his  place  under  the  reading  desk,  marched  up 
there  to  give  them  out.  He  took  this  method  of  preserving  his 
constitutional  connection  with  the  singing,  knowing  that  other- 
wise he  could  not  have  maintained  the  rightful  position  of  his 
office  in  this  matter.  So  matters  had  stood  until  shortly  before 
the  time  of  our  story. 

The  present  curate,  however,  backed  by  Miss  Winter,  had 
tried  a  reform.  He  was  a  quiet  man,  with  a  wife  and  several 
children,  and  small  means.  He  had  served  in  the  diocese  ever 
since  he  had  been  ordained,  in  a  hum-drum  sort  of  way,  going 
where  he  was  sent  for,  and  performing  his  routine  duties  rea- 
sonably well,  but  without  showing  any  great  aptitude  for  his 
work.  He  had  little  interest,  and  had  almost  given  up  expect- 
ing promotion,  which  he  certainly  had  done  nothing  particular 
to  merit.  But  there  was  one  point  on  which  lie  was  always 
ready  to  go  out  of  his  way,  and  take  a  little  trouble.  He  was 
a  good  musician,  and  had  formed  choirs  at  all  his  former 
curacies. 


ENGLEBOURN  VILLAGE.  205 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  therefore,  he,  in  concert  with  Miss 
Winter,  had  begun  to  train  the  children  in  church-music.  A 
small  organ,  which  had  stood  in  a  passage  in  the  rectory  for 
many  years,  had  been  repaired,  and  appeared  first  at  the  school- 
room, and  at  length  under  the  gallery  of  the  church  ;  and  it  was 
announced  one  week  to  the  party  in  possession,  that,  on  the 
next  Sunday,  the  constituted  authorities  would  take  the  church- 
music  into  their  own  hands.  Then  arose  a  strife,  the  end  of 
which  had  nearly  been  to  send  the  gallery  off  in  a  body,  headed 
by  the  offended  bass-viol,  to  the  small  red-brick  little  Bethel  at 
the  other  end  of  the  village.  Fortunately,  the  curate  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  drive  matters  to  extremities,  and  so  alien- 
ate the  parish  constable,  and  a  large  part  of  his  flock,  though 
he  had  not  tact  or  energy  enough  to  bring  them  round  to  his 
own  views.  So  a  compromise  was  come  to  ;  and  the  curate's 
choir  were  allowed  to  chant  the  Psalms  and  Canticles,  which 
had  always  been  read  before,  while  the  gallery  remained  trium- 
phant masters  of  the  regular  Psalms. 

My  readers  will  now  understand  why  Miss  "Winter's  saluta- 
tion to  the  musical  constable  was  not  so  cordial  as  it  was  to  the 
other  villagers  whom  they  had  come  across  previously. 

Indeed,  Miss  Winter,  though  she  acknowledged  the  consta- 
ble's salutation,  did  not  seem  inclined  to  encourage  him  to 
accompany  them,  and  talk  his  mind  out,  although  he  was  going 
the  same  way  with  them  ;  and  instead  of  drawing  him  out,  as 
was  her  wont  in  such  cases,  went  on  talking  herself  to  her 
cousin. 

The  little  man  walked  out  in  the  road,  evidently  in  trouble 
of  mind.  He  did  not  like  to  drop  behind  or  go  ahead  without 
some  further  remark  from  Miss  Winter  and  yet  could  not  screw 
up  his  courage  to  the  point  of  opening  the  conversation  himself. 
So  he  ambled  on  alongside  the  footpath  on  which  they  were 
walking,  showing  his  discomfort  by  a  twist  of  his  neck  every 
few  seconds  (as  though  he  were  nodding  at  them  with  the  side 
of  his  head)  and  perpetual  shifting  of  his  bass-viol,  and  hunching 
up  of  one  shoulder. 

The  conversation  of  the  young  ladies  under  these  circum- 
stances was  of  course  forced  ;  and  Miss  Mary,  though  infinitely 
delighted  at  the  meeting,  soon  began  to  pity  their  involuntary 
companion.  She  was  full  of  the  sensitive  instinct  which  the 
best  sort  of  women  have  to  such  a  marvellous  extent,  and  which 
tells  them  at  once  and  infallibly  if  any  one  in  their  company 
has  even  a  creased  rose-leaf  next  their  moral  skin. 

Before  they  had  walked  a  hundred  yards  she  was  interceding 
for  the  rebellious  constable. 


206  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Katie,"  she  said  softly,  in  French,  "  do  speak  to  him.  The 
poor  man  is  frightfully  uncomfortable." 

"  It  serves  him  right,"  answered  Miss  Winter,  in  the  same 
language  ;  "  you  don't  know  how  impertinent  he  was  the  other 
day  to  Mr.  Walker.  And  he  won't  give  way  on  the  least  point, 
and  leads  the  rest  of  the  old  singers,  and  makes  them  as  stub- 
born as  himself." 

"But  do  look  how  he  is  winking  and  jerking  his  head  at  you. 
You  really  mustn't  be  so  cruel  to  him,  Katie.  I  shall  have  to 
begin  talking  to  him  if  you  don't." 

Thus  urged,  Miss  Winter  opened  the  conversation  by  asking 
after  his  wife,  and,  when  she  had  ascertained  "  that  his  missus 
wur  pretty  middlin',"  made  some  other  commonplace  remark, 
and  relapsed  into  silence.  By  the  help  of  Mary,  however,  a  sort 
of  disjointed  dialogue  was  kept  up  till  they  came  to  the  gate 
which  led  up  to  the  school,  into  which  the  children  were 
trooping  by  two's  and  three's.  Here  the  ladies  turned  in,  and 
were  going  up  the  walk,  towards  the  school  door,  when  the 
constable  summoned  up  courage  to  speak  on  the  matter  which 
was  troubling  him,  and,  resting  the  bass-viol  carefully  on  his 
right  foot,  called  after  them, — 

"  Oh,  please,  marm !  Miss  Winter ! " 

"  Well,"  she  said  quietly,  turning  round,  "  what  do  you  wish 
to  say?" 

"  W'y,  please,  marm,  I  hopes  you  don't  think  I  be  any  ways 
nuked,  'bout  this  here  quire-singin',  as  they  calls  it — I'm  sartin 
you  knows  as  there  aint  a'most  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  please 
ee." 

"  Well,  you  know  how  to  do  it  very  easily,"  she  said  when 
he  paused.  "  I  don't  ask  you  even  to  give  up  your  music  and 
try  to  work  with  us,  though  I  think  you  might  have  done  that. 
I  only  ask  you  to  use  some  psalms  and  tunes  which  are  fit  to  be 
used  in  a  church." 

"  To  be  sure  us  ool.  'Tain't  we  as  want  no  few-f angled  tunes ; 
them  as  we  sings  be  aal  owld  ones  as  ha'  been  used  in  our 
church  ever  since  I  can  mind.  But  you  only  choose  thaay  as 
you  likes  out  o'  the  book,  and  we  be  ready  to  kep  to  they." 

"  I  think  Mr.  Walker  made  a  selection  for  you  some  weeks 
ago."  said  Miss  Winter  ;  "did  not  he  ?" 

"  'Ees,  but  'tis  narra  mossel  o'  use  for  we  to  try  his  'goriums 
and  sich  like.  I  hopes  you  wun't  be  offended  wi'  me,  miss,  for 
I  be  telling  naught  but  truth."  He  spoke  louder  as  they  got 
nearer  to  the  school  door,  and,  as  they  were  opening  it,  shouted 
his  last  shot  after  them,  "  "Pis  na  good  to  try  thaay  tunes  o' 
his'n,  miss.  When  us  praises  God,  us  likes  to  praise  un  joyf  uL" 


ENGLEVOURN  VILLAGE.  207 

"There,  you  hear  that,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Winter.  "You'll 
soon  begin  to  see  why  I  look  grave.  There  never  was  such  n 
hard  parish  to  manage.  Nobody  will  do  what  they  ought.  I 
never  can  get  them  to  do  anything.  Perhaps  we  may  mannge 
to  teach  the  children  better,  that's  my  only  comfort." 

"But,  Katie  dear,  what  do  the  poor  things  sing?  Psalms,  I 
hope." 

u  Oh,  yes ;  but  they  choose  all  the  odd  ones  on  purpose,  I 
believe.  Which  class  will  you  take  ?  " 

And  so  the  young  ladies  settled  to  their  teaching,  and  the 
children  in  her  class  all  fell  in  love  with  Mary  before  church- 
time. 

The  bass-viol  proceeded  to  the  church  and  did  the  usual  re- 
hearsals, and  gossiped  with  the  sexton,  to  whom  he  conlided 
the  fact  that  the  young  missus  was  terrible  vexed.  The  bells 
soon  began  to  ring,  and  Widow  Winburn's  heart  was  glad  as 
she  listened  to  the  full  peal,  and  thought  to  herself  that  it  was 
her  Harry  who  was  making  so  much  noise  in  the  world,  and 
speaking  to  all  the  neighborhood.  Then  the  peal  ceased  as 
church-time  drew  near,  and  the  single  bell  began,  and  the  con- 
gregation came  flocking  in  from  all  sides.  The  farmers,  let- 
ting their  wives  and  children  enter,  gathered  round  the  chief 
porch  and  compared  notes  in  a  ponderous  manner  on  crops 
and  markets.  The  laborers  collected  near  the  door  by  which 
the  gallery  was  reached.  All  the  men  of  the  parish  seemed  to 
like  standing  about  before  church,  though  poor  Walker,  the 
curate,  did  not  appear.  He  came  up  with  the  school  children 
and  the  young  ladies,  and  in  due  course  the  bell  stopped  and 
the  service  began.  There  was  a  very  good  congregation  still 
at  Englebourn  ;  the  adult  generation  had  been  bred  up  in  times 
when  every  decent  person  in  the  pai-ish  went  to  church,  and 
the  custom  was  still  strong,  notwithstanding  the  rector's  bad 
example.  He  scarcely  ever  came  to  church  himself  in  the 
mornings,  though  his  wheel-chair  might  be  seen  going  up  and 
down  on  the  gravel  before  his  house  or  on  the  lawn  on  warm 
days ;  and  this  was  one  of  his  daughter's  greatest  troubles. 

The  little  choir  of  children  sang  admirably,  led  by  the  school- 
mistress, and  Miss  Winter  and  the  curate  exchanged  approv- 
ing glances.  They  performed  the  liveliest  chant  in  their  col- 
lection, that  the  opposition  might  have  no  cause  to  complain  of 
their  want  of  joyfulness.  And  in  turn  Miss  Wheeler  was  in 
hopes  that  out  of  deference  to  her,  the  usual  rule  of  selection 
in  the  gallery  might  have  been  modified.  It  was  with  no  siaall 
Annoyance,  therefore,  that,  after  the  litany  was  over  and  the 
tuning  finished,  she  heard  the  clerk  give  out  that  they  von1  •• 


208  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFOED. 

praise  God  by  singing  part  of  the  ninety-first  Psalm,  Mary, 
who  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  as  to  what  was  corning, 
saw  the  curate  give  a  slight  shrug  with  his  shoulders  and  lift 
of  his  eyebrows  as  he  left  the  reading-desk,  and  in  another 
minute  it  became  a  painful  effort  for  her  to  keep  from  laugh, 
ing  as  she  slyly  watching  her  cousin's  face ;  while  the  gallery 
sang  with  vigor  worthy  of  any  cause  or  occasion, — 

"  On  the  old  lion  He  shall  go, 
The  adder  fell  and  long; 
On  the  young  lion  tread  also, 
With  dragons  stout  and  strong." 

The  trebles  took  up  the  last  line,  and  repeated, — 

With  dragons  stout  and  strong;  " 

and  then  the  whole  strength  of  the  gallery  chorused  again, 
With  dra-tfons  stout  and  strong. 

and  the  bass-viol  seemed  to  her  to  prolong  the  notes  and  to 
gloat  over  them  as  he  droned  them  out,  looking  triumphantly 
at  the  distant  curate.  Mary  was  thankful  to  kneel  down  to 
compose  her  face.  The  first  trial  was  the  severe  one,  and  she 
got  through  the  second  psalm  much  better ;  and  by  the  time 
Mr.  Walker  had  plunged  fairly  into  his  sermon  she  was  a 
model  of  propriety  and  serlateness  again.  But  it  was  to  be  a 
Sunday  of  adventures.  The  sermon  had  scarcely  begun  when 
there  was  a  stir  down  by  the  door  at  the  west  end,  and  people 
began  to  look  round  and  whisper.  Presently  a  man  came  softly 
up  and  said  something  to  the  clerk  ;  the  clerk  jumped  up  and 
whispered  to  the  curate,  who  paused  for  a  moment  with  a  puz- 
zled look,  and,  instead  of  finishing  his  sentence,  said  in  a  loud 
voice,  "  Farmer  Grove's  house  is  on  fire  !  " 

The  curate  probably  anticipated  the  effect  of  his  words  ;  in 
a  minute  he  was  the  only  person  left  in  the  church  except  the 
clerk  and  one  or  two  very  infirm  old  folk.  He  shut  up  and 
pocketed  his  sermon,  and  followed  his  flock. 

It  proved  luckily  to  be  only  Farmer  Grove's  chimney  and 
not  his  house  which  was  on  fire.  The  farmhouse  was  only  two 
fields  from  the  village,  and  the  congregation  rushed  across 
there,  Harry  Winburu  and  two  or  three  of  the  most  active 
young  men  and  boys  leading.  As  they  entered  the  yard  the 
flames  were  rushing  out  of  the  chimney,  and  any  moment  the 
thatch  might  take  fire.  Here  was  the  real  danger.  A  ladder 


ENGLEBOURN  VILLAGE.  209 

had  just  been  reared  against  the  chimney,  and,  while  a  fright- 
ened farm-girl  and  a  carter-boy  held  it  at  the  bottom,  a  man 
was  gojng  up  it  carrying  a  bucket  of  water.  It  shook  with 
his  weight,  and  the  top  was  slipping  gradually  along  the  face 
of  the  chimney,  and  in  another  moment  would  rest  against 
nothing.  Harry  and  his  companions  saw  the  danger  at  a 
glance,  and  shouted  to  the  man  to  stand  still  till  they  eould 
get  to  the  ladder.  They  rushed  towards  him  with  the  rush 
which  men  can  only  make  under  strong  excitement ;  but  the 
foremost  of  them  caught  a  spoke  with  one  hand,  and,  before 
he  could  steady  it,  the  top  slipped  clear  of  the  chimney,  and 
ladder,  man,  and  bucket,  came  heavily  to  the  ground. 

Then  came  a  scene  of  bewildering  confusion,  as  women  and 
children  trooped  into  the  yard — "  Who  was  it  ? "  "  Was  he 
dead?"  "  The  fire  was  catching  the  thatch."  "The  stables 
were  on  fire."  "  Who  done  it  ?  — all  sorts  of  cries,  and  all 
sorts  of  acts  except  the  right  ones.  Fortunately,  two  or  three 
of  the  men,  with  heads  on  their  shoulders,  soon  organized  a 
line  for  handing  buckets ;  the  flue  was  stopped  below,  and 
Harry  Winburn,  standing  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  ladder, 
which  was  now  safely  planted,  was  deluging  the  thatch  round 
the  chimney  from  the  buckets  handed  up  to  him.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  able  to  pour  water  down  the  chimney  itself, 
and  soon  afterwards  the  whole  affair  was  at  an  end.  The 
farmer's  dinner  was  spoilt,  but  otherwise  no  damage  had  been 
done,  except  to  the  clothes  of  the  foremost  men ;  and  the  only 
accident  was  that  first  fall  from  the  ladder. 

The  man  had  been  carried  out  of  the  yard  while  the  fire  was 
still  burning  ;  so  that  it  was  hardly  known  who  it  was.  Now, 
in  answer  to  their  inquiries,  it  proved  to  be  old  Simon,  the 
rector's  gardener  and  head  man,  who  had  seen  the  fire,  and 
sent  the  news  to  the  church,  while  he  himself  went  to  the  spot, 
with  such  result  as  we  have  seen.* 

The  surgeon  had  not  yet  seen  him.  Some  declared  he  was 
dead ;  others,  that  he  was  sitting  up  at  home,  and  quite  well. 
Little  by  little  the  crowd  dispersed  to  Sunday's  dinners;  and, 
when  they  met  again  before  the  afternoon's  service,  it  was  as- 
certained that  Simon  was  certainly  not  dead,  but  all  else  was 
still  nothing  more  than  rumor.  Public  opinion  was  much 
divided,  some  holding  that  it  would  go  hard  with  a  man  of  his 
age  and  heft ;  but  the  common  belief  seemed  to  be  that  he  was 
of  that  sort  "  as'd  take  a  deal  o'  killin',"  and  that  he  would  be 
none  the  worse  for  such  a  fall  as  that. 

The  two  young  ladies  had  been  much  shocked  at  the  acci- 
dent, and  bad  accompanied  the  hurdle  on  which  old  Simon  was 


210  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

carried  to  his  cottage  door  ;  after  afternoon  service  they  went 
round  by  the  cottage  to  inquire.  The  two  girls  knocked  at 
the  door,  which  was  opened  by  his  wife,  who  dropped  .a  cour- 
tesy and  smoothed  down  her  Sunday  apron  when  she  found 
who  were  her  visitors. 

She  seemed  at  first  a  little  unwilling  to  let  them  in  ;  but 
Miss  Winter  pressed  so  kindly  to  see  her  husband,  and  Mary 
made  such  sympathizing  eyes  at  her,  that  the  old  woman  gave 
in,  and  conducted  her  through  the  front  room  into  that  beyond, 
where  the  patient  lay. 

"  I  hope  as  you'll  excuse  it,  miss,  for  I  knows  the  place  do 
smell  terrible  bad  of  baccer ;  only  my  old  man  he  said  as 
how—" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  ;  we  don't  care  at  all  about  the  smell.  Poor 
Simon !  I'm  sure  if  it  does  him  any  good,  or  soothes  the  pain, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  buy  him  some  tobacco  myself." 

The  old  man  was  lying  on  the  bed  with  his  coat  and  boots 
off,  and  a  worsted  nightcap  of  his  wife's  knitting  pulled  on  to 
his  head.  She  had  tried  hard  to  get  him  to  go  to  bed  at  once, 
and  take  some  physic,  and  his  present  costume  and  position 
was  the  compromise.  His  back  was  turned  to  them  as  they 
entered,  and  he  was  evidently  in  pain,  for  he  drew  his  breath 
heavily  and  with  difficulty,  and  gave  a  sort  of  groan  at  every 
respiration.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  their  entrance ;  so  his 
wife  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Simon,  here's  the 
young  ladies  come  to  see  how  you  be." 

Simon  turned  himself  round,  and  winced  and  groaned  as  he 
pulled  his  nightcap  off  in  token  of  respect. 

"  We  didn't  like  to  go  home  without  coming  to  see  how  you 
were,  Simon.  Has  the  doctor  been  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank'ee,  miss.  He've  a  been  and  feel'd  un  all 
ovei*,  and  listened  at  the  chest  on  un,"  said  his  wife. 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  v 

"A  zem'd  to  zay  as  there  war  no  bwones  bruk — ugh,  ugh,'* 
put  in  Simon,  who  spoke  his  native  tongue  with  a  buzz,  im- 
ported from  further  west,  "  but  a  couldn't  zay  wether  or  no 
there  warn't  some  infarnal  injury — " 

"Etarnal,  Simon,  etarnal ! "  interrupted  his  wife;  "how 
canst  use  such  words  afore  the  young  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  tell'ee,  wife,  as  'twur  infarnal — ugh,  ugh,"  retorted  the 
gardener. 

"Internal  injury?"  suggested  Miss  Winter.  "I'm.  very 
sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Zummat  inside  o'  me  like,  as  wur  got  out  o'  place,"  ex- 
plained Simon  ;  "  and  I  thenks  a  must  be  near  about  the  mark,, 


ENGLEBOURN  VILLAGE.  211 

for  I  feels  mortal  bad  here  when  I  tries  to  move ; "  and  he  put 
his  hand  on  his  side.  "  Hows'm'ever,  as  there's  no  bwones 
bruk,  I  hopes  to  be  about  to-inorrow  mornin',  please  the  Lord 
— ugh,  ugh  !  " 

"You  mustn't  think  of  it,  Simon,"  said  Miss  Winter.  "You 
must  be  quite  quiet  for  a  week,  at  least,  till  you  get  rid  of  this 
pain." 

"  So  I  tells  un,  Miss  Winter,"  put  in  the  wife.  "  You  hear 
what  the  young  missus  says,  Simon  ?  " 

"  And  wut's  to  happen  Tiny  ?  "  said  the  contumacious  Simon, 
scornfully.  "  Her'll  cast  her  calf,  and  me  not  by.  Her's  calv- 
ing may  be  this  niinut.  Tiny's  time  wur  up,  miss,  two  days 
back,  and  her's  never  no  gurt  while  arter  her  time." 

"  She  will  do  very  well,  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Winter. 
"  One  of  the  men  can  look  after  her." 

The  notion  of  any  one  else  attending  Tiny  in  her  interesting 
situation  seemed  to  excite  Simon  beyond  bearing  for  he  raised 
himself  on  one  elbow,  and  was  about  to  make  a  demonstration 
with  his  other  hand,  when  the  pain  seized  him  again,  and  he 
sank  back  groaning. 

"  There  you  see,  Simon,  you  can't  move  without  pain.  You 
must  be  quiet  till  you  have  seen  the  doctor  again." 

"  There's  the  red  spider  out  along  the  south  wall — ugh,  ugh," 
persisted  Simon,  without  seeming  to  hear  her ;  "  and  your 
new  g'raniums  a'most  covered  wi  blight.  I  wur  a  tacklin',  one 
on  'em  just  afore  you  come  in." 

Following  the  direction  indicated  by  his  nod,  the  girls  became 
aware  of  a  plant  by  his  bedside,  which  he  had  been  fumigating, 
for  his  pipe  was  leaning  against  the  flower-pot  in  which  it 
stood. 

"  He  wouldn't  lie  still  nohow,  miss,"  explained  his  wife,  "  till 
I  went  and  fetched  un  in  a  pipe  and  one  o'  thaay  plants  from 
the  greenhouse." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtful  of  you,  Simon,"  said  Miss  Winter ; 
"  you  know  how  much  I  prize  these  new  plants  ;  but  we  will 
manage  them  ;  and  you  mustn't  think  of  these  things  now. 
You  have  had  a  wonderful  escape  to-day  for  a  man  of  your  age. 
I  hope  we  shall  find  that  there  is  nothing  much  the  matter 
with  you  after  a  few  days,  but  you  might  have  been  killed,  you 
know.  You  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  God  that  you  were 
not  killed  in  that  fall." 

"  So  I  be,  miss,  werry  thankful  to  un — ugh,  ugh  ;  and  if  it 
plaase  the  Lord  to  spare  my  life  till  to-morrow  mornin', — ugh, 
ugh, — we'll  smoke  them  cussed  insects." 

This  last  retort  of  the  incorrigible  Simon  on  her  cousin's  at- 


JJ12  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

tempt,  as  the  rector's  daughter,  to  improve  the  occasion,  was 
too  much  for  Miss  Mary,  and  she  slipped  out  of  the  room  lest 
she  should  bring  disgrace  on  herself  by  an  explosion  of  laughter. 
She  was  joined  by  her  cousin  in  another  minute,  and  the  two 
walked  together  towards  the  rectory. 

"  I  hope  you  were  not  faint  dear,  with  that  close  room, 
smelling  of  smoke  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  ;  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  only  afraid  of 
laughing  at  your  quaint  old  patient.  What  a  rugged  old  dear 
it  is.  I  hope  he  isn't  much  hurt." 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed  ;  for  he  is  the  most  honest,  faithful  old 
servant  in  the  world,  but  so  obstinate.  He  never  will  go  to 
church  on  Sunday  mornings  ;  and,  when  I  speak  to  him  about 
it  he  says  papa  doesn't  go,  which  is  very  wrong  and  imperti- 
nent of  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PROMISE  OF  FAIEER  WEATHER. 

ALL  dwellers  in  and  about  London  are,  alas,  too  well  ac- 
quainted with  that  never-to-be-euough-hated  change  which  we 
have  to  undergo  once  at  least  in  every  spring.  As  each  sue. 
ceeding  winter  wears  away,  the  same  thing  happens  to  us. 

For  some  time  we  do  not  trust  the  fair,  lengthening  days> 
and  cannot  believe  that  the  dirty  pair  of  sparrows  who  live  op» 
posite  our  window  are  really  making  love  and  going  to  build, 
notwithstanding  all  their  twittering.  But  morning  after  morn* 
ing  rises  fresh  and  gentle ;  there  is  no  longer  any  vice  in  tha 
air ;  we  drop  our  overcoats ;  we  rejoice  in  the  green  shoots 
which  the  privet  hedge  is  making  in  the  square  garden,  and 
hail  the  returning  tender-pointed  leaves  of  the  plane  trees  as 
friends  ;  we  go  out  of  our  way  to  walk  through  Covent  Garden 
market  to  see  the  ever-brightening  show  of  flowers  from  the 
happy  country. 

This  state  of  things  goes  on  sometimes  for  a  few  days  only, 
sometimes  for  weeks,  till  we  make  sure  that  we  are  safe  for 
this  spring,  at  any  rate.  Don't  we  wish  we  may  get  it !  Soon- 
er or  later,  but  sure — sure  as  Christmas  bills,  or  the  income- 
tax,  or  anything,  if  there  be  anything,  surer  than  these — comes 
the  morning  when  we  are  suddenly  conscious  as  soon  as  we 
rise  that  there  is  something  the  matter.  We  do  not  feel  com- 
fortable in  our  clothes ;  nothing  tastes  quite  as  it  should  a* 
breakfast;  though  the  day^looks  brights  enough,  there  is  i 


A  PROMISE  OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  213 

fierce,  dusty  taint  about  it,  as  we  look  out  through  windows, 
which  no  instinct  now  prompts  us  to  throw  open,  as  it  has  done 
every  day  for  the  last  month. 

But  it  is  only  when  we  open  our  doors  and  issue  into  tli€ 
street,  that  the  hateful  reality  comes  right  home  to  us.  All 
moisture,  and  softness,  and  pleasantness  has  gone  clean  out  of 
t.he  air  since  last  night ;  we  seem  to  inhale  yards  of  horsehair 
instead  of  satin;  our  skins  dry  up;  our  eyes,  and  hair,  and 
whiskers,  and  clothes  are  soon  filled  with  loathsome  dust,  and 
our  nostrils  with  the  reek  of  the  great  city.  We  glance  at  the 
weathercock  on  the  nearest  steeple  and  see  that  it  points  N.E 
And  so  long  as  the  change  lasts  we  carry  about  with  us  a  feel- 
ing of  anger  and  impatience  as  though  we  personally  were  be- 
ing ill-treated.  We  could  have  borne  with  it  well  enough  in 
November ;  it  would  have  been  natural,  and  all  in  the  day's 
work,  in  March  ;  but  now,  when  Rottenrow  is  beginning  to  be 
crowded,  when  long  lines  of  pleasure-vans  are  leaving  town  on 
Monday  mornings  for  Hampton  Court,  or  the  poor  remains  of 
dear  Epping  Forest,  when  the  exhibitions  are  open  or  about  to 
open,  when  the  religious  public  is  up,  or  on  its  way  up,  for 
May  meetings,  when  the  Thames  is  already  sending  up  faint 
warnings  of  what  we  may  expect,  as  soon  as  his  dirty  old  life's 
blood  shall  have  been  throughly  warmed  up,  and  the  Ship,  and 
Trafalgar,  and  Star  and  Garter  arc  in  full  swing  at  the  antag- 
onist poles  of  the  cockney  system,  we  do  feel  that  this  blight 
which  has  come  over  us  and  everything  is  an  insult,  and  that 
while  it  lasts,  as  there  is  nobody  who  can  be  made  particularly 
responsible  for  it,  we  are  justified  in  going  about  in  general  dis- 
gust, and  ready  to  quarrel  with  anybody  we  may  meet  on  the 
smallest  pretext. 

This  sort  of  east-windy  state  is  perhaps  the  best  physical 
analogy  for  that  mental  one  in  which  our  hero  now  found  him- 
self. The  real  crisis  was  over;  he  had  managei  to  pass  through 
the  eye  of  the  storm,  and  drift  for  the  present  at  least  into  the 
skirts  of  it,  where  he  lay  rolling  under  bare  poles,  comparative- 
ly safe,  but  without  any  power  as  yet,  to  get  the  ship  well  in 
hand,  and  make  her  obey  her  helm.  The  storm  might  break 
over  him  again  at  any  minute,  and  would  find  him  almost  as 
helpless  as  ever. 

For  he  could  not  follow  Drysdale's  advice  at  once,  and  break 
off  his  visits  to  "  The  Choughs  "  altogether.  He  went  back 
again  after  a  day  or  two,  but  only  for  short  visits ;  he  never 
stayed  behind  now  after  the  other  men  left  the  bar,  and  avoid- 
ed interviews  with  Patty  alone  as  diligently  as  ho  had  sought 
them  before.  She  was  puzzled  at  his  change  of  manner,  and, 


214  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

not  being  able  to  account  for  it,  was  piqued,  and  ready  to  re- 
venge herself  and  pay  him  out  in  the  hundred  little  ways  which 
the  least  practised  of  her  sex  know  how  to  employ  for  the  dis- 
cipline of  any  of  the  inferior  or  trousered  half  of  the  creation. 
If  she  had  been  really  in  love  with  him,  it  would  have  been  a 
different  matter ;  but  she  was  not.  In  the  last  six  weeks  she 
had  certainly  often  had  visions  of  the  pleasures  of  being  a  lady 
and  keeping  servants,  and  riding  in  a  carriage  like  the  squires' 
and  rectors'  wives  and  daughters  about  her  home.  She  had  a 
liking,  even  a  sentiment  for  him,  which  might  very  well  have 
grown  into  something  dangerous  before  long;  but  as  yet  it  was 
not  more  than  skin  deep.  Of  late,  indeed,  she  had  been  much 
more  frightened  than  attracted  by  the  conduct  of  her  admirer, 
and  really  felt  it  a  relief,  notwithstanding  her  pique,  when  he 
retired  into  the  elder-brother  sort  of  state.  But  she  would 
have  been  more  than  woman  if  she  had  not  resented  the  change ; 
and  so,  very  soon,  the  pangs  of  jealousy  were  added  to  his 
other  troubles.  Other  men  were  beginning  to  frequent  "  The 
Choughs"  regularly.  Drysdale,  besides  dividing  with  Tom 
the  prestige  of  being  an  original  discoverer,  was  by  far  the 
largest  customer.  St.  Cloud  came,  and  brought  Chanter  with 
him,  to  whom  Patty  was  actually  civil,  not  because  she  liked 
him  at  all,  but  because  she  saw  that  it  made  Tom  furious. 
Though  he  could  not  fix  on  any  one  man  in  particular,  he  felt 
that  mankind  in  general  were  gaining  on  him.  In  his  better 
moments  indeed  he  often  wished  that  she  would  take  the 
matter  into  her  own  hands  and  throw  him  over  for  good  and 
all ;  but  keep  away  from  the  place  altogether  he  could  not,  and 
often,  when  he  fancied  himself  on  the  point  of  doing  it,  a  pretty 
toss  of  her  head,  or  kind  look  of  her  eyes,  would  scatter  all  his 
good  resolutions  to  the  four  winds. 

And  so  the  days  dragged  on,  and  he  dragged  on  through  them ; 
hot  fits  of  conceit  alternating  in  him  with  cold  fits  of  despondency 
and  mawkishness  and  discontent  with  everything  and  every- 
body, which  were  all  the  more  intolerable  from  their  entire 
strangeness.  Instead  of  seeing  the  bright  side  of  all  things,  he 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  creation  through  yellow  spectacles, 
and  saw  faults  and  blemishes  in  all  his  acquaintance  which  had 
been  till  now  invisible. 

But,  the  more  he  was  inclined  to  depreciate  all  other  men, 
the  more  he  felt  that  there  was  one  to  whom  he  had  been 
grossly  unjust.  And,  as  he  recalled  all  that  had  passed,  he  be- 
gan to  do  justice  to  the  man  who  had  not  flinched  from  warn- 
ing him  and  braving  him,  who  he  felt  had  been  watching  over 
him,  and  trying  to  guide  him  straight  when  he  had  lost  all 
Dower  or  will  to  keep  straight  himself.  - 


A  PROMISE  OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  215 

From  this  time  the  dread  increased  on  him,  lest  any  of  the 
other  men  should  find  out  his  quarrel  with  Hardy.  Their  utter 
ignorance  of  it  encouraged  him  in  the  hope  that  it  might  all 
pass  off  like  a  bad  dream.  While  it  remained  a  matter  between 
them  alone,  he  felt  that  all  might  come  straight,  though  he 
could  not  think  how.  He  began  to  loiter  by  the  entrance  of 
the  passage  which  led  to  Hardy's  rooms ;  sometimes  he  would 
find  something  to  say  to  his  scout  or  bedmaker  which  took  him 
into  the  back  regions  outside  Hardy's  window,  glancing  at  it 
sideways  as  he  stood  giving  his  orders.  There  it  was,  wide 
open,  generally — he  hardly  knew  whether  he  hoped  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  owner,  but  he  did  hope  that  Hardy  might  hear 
his  voice.  He  watched  him  in  chapel  and  hall  furtively,  but 
constantly,  and  was  always  fancying  what  he  was  doing  and 
thinking  about.  Was  it  as  painful  an  effort  to  Hardy,  he  won- 
dered, as  to  him  to  go  on  speaking,  as  if  nothing  had  happen- 
ed, when  they  met  at  the  boats,  as  they  did  now  again  almost 
daily  (for  Diogenes  was  bent  on  training  some  of  the  torpids 
for  next  year),  and  yet  never  to  look  one  another  in  the  face ; 
to  live  together  as  usual  during  part  of  every  day,  and  yet  to 
feel  all  the  time  that  a  great  wall  had  arisen  between  them, 
more  hopelessly  dividing  them  for  the  time,  than  thousands  of. 
miles  of  ocean  or  continent  ? 

Amongst  other  distractions  which  Tom  tried  at  this  crisis  of 
his  life,  was  reading.  For  three  or  four  days  running  he  really 
worked  hard, — very  hard,  if  we  were  to  reckon  by  the  number 
of  hours  he  spent  in  his  own  rooms  over  his  books  with  his  oak 
sported, — hard,  even  though  we  should  only  reckon  by  results. 
For,  though  scarcely  an  hour  passed  that  he  was  not  balanc- 
ing on  the  hind  legs  of  his  chair  with  a  vacant  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  thinking  of  anything  but  Greek  roots  or  Latin  construc- 
tions, yet  on  the  whole  he  managed  to  get  through  a  good  deal, 
and  one  evening,  for  the  first  time  since  his  quarrel  with  Hardy 
felt  a  sensation  of  real  comfort — it  hardly  amounted  to  pleasure 
•—as  he  closed  his  Sophocles  some  hour  or  so  after  hall,  having 
just  finished  the  last  of  the  Greek  plays  which  he  meant  to  take 
in  for  his  first  examination.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
sat  for  a  few  minutes,  letting  his  thoughts  follow  their  own 
bent.  They  soon  took  to  going  wrong,  and  he  jumped  up  in 
fear  lest  he  should  be  drifting  back  into  the  black,  stormy  sea 
in  the  trough  of  which  he  had  been  laboring  so  lately,  and 
which  he  felt  he  was  by  no  means  clear  of  yet.  At  first  he 
caught  up  his  cap  and  gown  as  though  he  were  going  out. 
There  was  a  wine  party  at  one  of  his  acquaintance'  rooms  ;  or 
he  could  go  and  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  pool  room,  or  at  any  one 


216  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

of  a  dozen  other  places.  On  second  thoughts,  however,  he 
threw  his  academicals  back  on  to  the  sofa,  and  went  to  his 
bookcase.  The  reading  had  paid  so  well  that  evening  that  he 
resolved  to  go  on  with  it.  He  had  no  particular  object  in 
selecting  one  book  more  than  another,  and  so  took  down  care- 
lessly the  first  that  came  to  hand. 

It  happened  to  be  a  volume  of  Plato,  and  opened  of  its  own 
accord  in  the  Apology.  He  glanced  at  a  few  lines.  What  a 
flood  of  memories  they  called  up  !  This  was  almost  the  last 
book  he  had  read  at  school ;  and  teacher,  and  friends,  and  lofty 
oak-shelved  library  stood  out  before  him  at  once.  Then  the 
blunders  that  he  himself  and  others  had  made  rushed  through 
his  mind,  and  he  almost  burst  into  a  laugh  as  he  wheeled  his 
chair  round  to  the  window,  and  began  reading  where  he  had 
opened,  encouraging  every  thought  of  the  old  times  when  he 
first  read  that  marvellous  defence,  and  throwing  himself  back 
into  them  with  all  his  might.  And  still,  as  he  read,  forgotten 
words  of  wise  comment,  and  strange  thoughts  of  wonder  and 
longing,  came  back  to  him.  The  great  truth  which  he  had 
been  led  to  the  brink  of  in  those  early  days  rose  in  all  its  awe 
and  all  its  attractiveness  before  him.  He  leant  back  in  his 
chair,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  thought  ;  and  how  strangely 
that  thought  bore  on  the  struggle  which  had  been  raging  in  him 
of  late  ;  how  an  answer  seemed  to  be  trembling  to  come  out  of 
it  to  all  the  cries,  now  defiant,  now  plaintive,  which  had  gone 
up  out  of  his  heart  in  this  time  of  trouble  !  For  his  thought 
was  of  that  spirit,  distinct  from  himself,  and  yet  commun- 
ing with  his  inmost  soul,  always  dwelling  in  him,  knowing  him 
better  than  he  knew  himself,  never  misleading  him,  always 
leading  him  to  light  and  truth,  of  which  the  old  philosopher 
spoke.  "  The  old  heathen,  Socrates,  did  actually  believe  that 
— there  can  be  no  question  about  it ; "  he  thought.  "  Has  not 
the  testimony  of  the  best  men  through  these  two  thousand  years 
borne  witness  that  he  was  right — that  he  did  not  believe  a  lie? 
That  was  what  we  were  told.  Surely,  I  don't  mistake  !  Were 
we  not  told,  too,  or  did  I  dream  it,  that  what  was  true  for  him 
is  true  for  every  man — for  me  ?  That  there  is  a  spirit  dwell- 
ing in  me,  striving  with  me,  ready  to  lead  me  into  all  truth  if  I 
will  submit  to  his  guidance  ?  " 

"  Ay !  submit,  submit,  there's  the  rub !  Give  yourself  up  to 
his  guidance !  Throw  up  the  reins,  and  say,  you've  made  a 
mess  of  it.  Well,  why  not?  Haven't  I  made  a  mess  of  it? 
Am  I  fit  to  hold  the  reins?" 

u  Not  I,"  he  got  up  and  began  walking  about  his  rooms,  "  I 
give  it  up." 


A  PROMISE  OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  217 

"  Give  it  up  !  "  he  went  on,  presently ;  "  yes,  but  to  whom? 
Not  to  the  demon,  spirit,  whatever  it  was,  who  took  up  his 
abode  in  the  old  Athenian — at  least  so  he  said,  and  so  I  believe. 
No,  no  1  Two  thousand  years  and  all  that  they  have  seen  have 
not  passed  over  the  world  to  leave  us  just  where  he  was  left. 
We  want  no  demons  or  spirits.  And  yet  the  old  heathen  was 
guided  right,  and  what  can  a  man  want  more  ?  and  who  ever 
wanted  guidance  more  than  I  now — here — in  this  room — at 
this  minute  ?  I  give  up  the  reins ;  who  will  take  them  ?  " 
And  so  there  came  on  him  one  of  those  seasons  when  a  man's 
thoughts  cannot  be  followed  in  words.  A  sense  of  awe  came 
on  him,  and  over  him,  and  wrapped  him  round  ;  awe  at  a  pres- 
ence of  which  he  was  becoming  suddenly  conscious,  into  which 
he  seemed  to  have  wandered,  and  yet  which  he  felt  must  have 
been  there,  around  him,  in  his  own  heart  and  soul,  though  he 
knew  it  not.  There  was  hope  and  longing  in  his  heart  ming- 
ling with  the  fear  of  that  presence,  but  withal  the  old  reckless 
and  daring  feeling  which  he  knew  so  well,  still  bubbling  up 
untamed,  untamable  it  seemed  to  him. 

The  room  stifled  him  now ;  so  he  threw  on  his  cap  and  gown, 
and  hurried  down  into  the  quadrangle.  It  was  very  quiet ; 
probably  there  were  not  a  dozen  men  in  college.  He  walked 
across  to  the  low,  dark  entrance  of  the  passage  which  led  to 
Hardy's  rooms,  and  there  paused.  Was  he  there  by  chance, 
or  was  he  guided  there  ?  Yes,  this  was  the  right  way  for  him, 
he  had  no  doubt  now  as  to  that ;  down  the  dark  passage,  and 
into  the  room  he  knew  so  well — and  what  then  ?  He  took  a 
short  turn  or  two  before  the  entrance.  How  could  he  be  sure 
that  Hardy  was  alone  ?  And,  if  not,  to  go  in  would  be  worse 
than  useless.  If  he  were  alone,  what  should  he  say  ?  After 
all,  must  he  go  in  there  ?  was  there  no  way  but  that  ? 

The  college  clock  struck  a  quarter  to  seven.  It  was  his 
wsaal  time  for  "  The  Choughs ;"  the  house  would  be  quiet 
now ;  was  there  not  one  looking  out  for  him  there  who  would 
be  grieved  if  he  did  not  come?  After  all,  might  not  that  be 
his  way,  for  this  night  at  least  ?  He  might  bring  pleasure  to 
one  human  being  by  going  there  at  once.  That  he  knew ; 
what  else  could  he  be  sure  of  ? 

At  this  moment  he  heard  Hardy*s  door  open,  and  a  voice 
saying,  "  Good-night,"  and  the  next  Grey  came  out  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  was  passing  close  to  him. 

*'  Join  yourself  to  him."  The  impulse  came  so  strongly  into 
Tom's  mind  this  time,  that  it  was  like  a  voice  speaking  to  him. 
He  yielded  to  it,  and,  stepping  to  Grey's  side,  wished  him 
good-evening.  The  other  returned  his  salute  in  his  shy  way, 
and  was  hurrying  on,  but  Tom  kept  by  him. 


•2  i  $  TOM  ERO  WN  A  T  OXFORD. 

"  Have  you  been  reading  with  Hardy  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  How  is  he  ?  I  have  not  seen  anything  of  him  for  some 
time.'* 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I  think,"  said  Grey,  glancing  sideways  at 
his  questioner,  and  adding,  after  a  moment,  "  I  have  wondered 
rather  not  to  see  you  there  of  late." 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  school  ?  "  said  Tom,  breaking  away 
from  the  subject. 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  rather  late ;  I  must  make  a  haste  on ;  good' 
night." 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  with  you  to-night  ?  It  would  be  a  real 
kindness.  Indeed,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  how  embarrassing  his 
proposal  was  to  Grey,  "  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me — you 
don't  know  how  grateful  I  shall  be  to  you.  Do  let  me  go — 
just  for  to-night.  Try  me  once." 

Grey  hesitated,  turned  his  head  sharply  once  or  twice  as 
they  walked  on  together,  and  then  said,  with  something  like  a 
sigh— 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Did  you  ever  teach  in  a  night- 
school?" 

"No,  but  I  have  taught  in  the  Sunday-school  at  home  some- 
times. Indeed,  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"  Oh  !  but  this  is  not  at  all  like  a  Sunday-school.  They  are 
a  very  rough,  wild  lot." 

"  The  rougher  the  better,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  shall  know  how  to 
manage  them  then." 

"  But  you  must  not  really  be  rough  with  them." 

"  No,  I  won't ;  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Tom,  hastily,  for  he 
saw  his  mistake  at  once.  "  I  shall  take  it  as  a  great  favor,  if 
you  will  let  me  go  to-night.  You  won't  repent  it,  I'm  sure." 

Grey  did  not  seem  at  all  sure  of  this,  but  saw  no  means  of 
getting  rid  of  his  companion,  and  so  they  walked  on  together 
and  turned  down  a  long  narrow  court  in  the  lowest  part  of  the 
town.  At  the  doors  of  the  houses  laboring  men,  mostly  Irish, 
lounged  or  stood  about,  smoking  and  talking  to  one  another,  or 
to  the  women  who  leant  out  of  the  windows,  or  passed  to  and 
fro  on  their  vtirious  errands  of  business  or  pleasure.  A  group 
of  half-grown  lads  were  playing  at  pitch-farthing  at  the  fur- 
ther end,  and  all  over  the  court  were  scattered  children  of  all 
ages,  ragged  and  noisy  little  creatures  most  of  them,  on  whom 
paternal  and  maternal  admonitions  and  cuffs  were  constantly 
being  expended,  and,  to  all  appearances,  in  vain. 

At  the  sight  of  Grey  a  shout  arose  amongst  the  smaller  boys, 
of  "Here's  the  teacher J"  and  they  crowded  round  him  and 


A  PROMISE  OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  219 

Tom  as  they  went  up  the  court.  Several  of  the  men  gave  him 
a  half-surly,  half-respectful  nod,  as  he  passed  along,  wishing 
them  good-evening.  The  rest  merely  stared  at  him  and  his 
companion.  They  stopped  at  a  door  which  Grey  opened,  and 
led  the  way  into  the  passage  of  an  old  tumbled-down  cottage, 
en  the  ground-floor  of  which  were  two  low  rooms  which  served 
for  the  school-rooms. 

A  hard-featured,  middle-aged  woman,  who  kept  the  house, 
was  waiting,  and  said  to  Grey,  "  Mr.  Jones  told  me  to  say,  sir, 
ae  would  not  be  here  to-night,  as  he  has  got  a  bad  fever  case 
— so  you  was  to  take  only  the  lower  classes  sir,  he  said  ;  and 
the  policeman  would  be  near  to  keep  out  the  big  boys,  if  you 
wanted  him ;  shall  I  go  and  tell  him  to  step  round,  sir  ?  " 

Grey  looked  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  No, 
never  mind,  you  can  go ; "  and  then  turning  to  Tom,  added, 
"Jones  is  the  curate;  he  won't  be  here  to-night;  and  some 
of  the  bigger  boys  are  veiy  noisy  and  troublesome,  and  only 
come  to  make  a  noise.  However,  if  they  come,  we  must  do 
our  best." 

Meantime,  the  crowd  of  small  ragged  urchins  had  filled  the 
room,  and  were  swarming  on  to  the  benches  and  squabbling 
for  the  copy-books  which  were  laid  out  on  the  thin  desks. 
Grey  set  to  work  to  get  them  into  order,  and  soon  the  smallest 
were  draughted  off  into  the  inner  room  with  slates  and  spell- 
ing-books, and  the  bigger  ones,  some  dozen  in  number,  settled 
to  their  writing.  Tom  seconded  him  so  readily,  and  seemed 
so  much  at  home,  that  Grey  felt  quite  relieved. 

"  You  seem  to  get  on  capitally,"  he  said ;  "  I  will  go  into 
the  inner  room  to  the  little  ones,  and  you  stay  and  take 
these.  There  are  the  class-books  when  they  have  done  their 
copies,"  and  so  went  off  into  the  inner  room  and  closed  the 
door. 

My  readers  must  account  for  the  fact  as  they  please ;  I  only 
state  that  Tom,  as  he  bent  over  one  after  another  of  the  pupils, 
and  guided  the  small,  grubby  hands,  which  clutched  the  inky 
pens  with  cramped  fingers,  and  went  sputtering  and  blotching 
along  the  lines  of  the  copy-books,  felt  the  yellow  scales  dropping 
from  his  eyes,  and  more  warmth  coming  back  into  his  heart 
than  he  had  known  there  for  many  a  day. 

All  went  on  well  inside,  notwithstanding  a  few  small  out- 
breaks between  the  scholars,  but  every  now  and  then  mud  was 
thrown  against  the  window,  and  noises  outside  and  in  the 
passage  threatened  some  interruption.  At  last,  when  the 
writing  was  finished,  the  copy-books  cleared  away,  and  the 
class-books  distributed,  the  door  opened,  and  two  or  three  big 


SJ20  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

boys  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  lounged  in  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets  and  their  caps  on.  There  was  an  insolent  look  about 
them  which  set  Tom's  back  up  at  once ;  however,  he  kept  his 
temper,  made  them  take  their  caps  off,  and,  as  they  said  they 
wanted  to  read  with  the  rest,  let  them  take  their  places  on  the 
benches. 

But  now  came  the  tug  of  war.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
on  the  whole  lot  at  once,  and,  no  sooner  did  he  fix  his  atten- 
tion on  the  stammering  reader  for  the  time  being  and  try  to 
help  him,  than  anarchy  broke  out  all  round  him.  Small  stones 
and  shot  were  thrown  about,  and  cries  arose  from  the  smaller 
fry,  "  Please,  sir,  he's  been  and  poured  some  ink  down  my 
back,"  "He's  stole  my  book,  sir,"  "  He's  gone  and  stuck  a  pin 
in  my  leg."  The  evil-doers  were  so  cunning  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  catch  them ;  but,  as  he  was  hastily  turning  in  his 
own  mind  what  to  do,  a  cry  arose,  and  one  of  the  benches 
went  suddenly  over  backwards  on  to  the  floor,  carrying  with 
it  its  whole  freight  of  boys,  except  two  of  the  bigger  ones,  who 
were  the  evident  authors  of  the  mishap. 

Tom  sprang  at  the  one  nearest  him,  seized  him  by  the  collar, 
hauled  him  into  the  passage,  and  sent  him  out  of  the  street- 
door  with  a  sound  kick;  and  then,  rushing  back,  caught  hold 
of  the  second,  who  went  down  on  his  back  and  clung  round 
Tom's  legs,  snouting  for  help  to  his  remaining  companions,  and 
struggling  and  swearing.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  moment, 
and  now  the  door  opened,  and  Grey  appeared  from  the  inner 
room.  Tom  left  off  hauling  his  prize  towards  the  passage,  and 
felt  and  looked  very  foolish. 

"This  fellow,  and  another  whom  I  have  turned  out,  tip- 
set  that  form  with  all  the  little  boys  on  it,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically. 

"  It's  a  lie ;  'twasn't  me,"  roared  the  captive,  to  whom 
Tom  administered  a  sound  box  on  the  ear,  while  the  small 
boys,  rubbing  different  parts  of  their  bodies,  chorused,  "  'Twas 
him,  teacher,  'twas  him,"  and  heaped  further  charges  of  pinch- 
ing, pin-sticking,  and  other  atrocities  on  him. 

Grey  astonished  Tom  by  his  firmness.  "  Don't  strike  him 
again,"  he  said.  "  Now,  go  out  at  once,  or  I  will  send  for  your 
father."  The  fellow  got  up,  and,  after  standing  a  moment  and 
considering  his  chance  of  successful  resistance  to  physical  force 
in  the  person  of  Tom,  and  moral  in  that  of  Grey,  slunk  out. 
"You  must  go  too,  Murphy,"  went  on  Grey  to  another  of  the 
intruders. 

"  O  your  honor,  let  me  bide.  I'll  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse," 
pleaded  the  Irish  boy;  and  Tom  would  have  given  in,  but 
Grey  was  unyielding. 


A.  PROMISE  OF  FARIER  WEATHER. 

"You  were  turned  out  last  week,  and  Mr.  Jones  said  you 
were  not  to  come  back  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Well,  good-night  to  your  honor,"  said  Murphy,  and  took 
himself  off. 

**  The  rest  may  stop,"  said  Grey.  "  Yon  had  better  take  the 
inner  room  now ;  I  will  stay  here." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  couldn't  help  it ;  no  one  can  manage  those  two. 
Murphy  is  quite  different,  but  I  should  have  spoiled  him  if  I 
had  let  him  stay  now." 

The  remaining  half-hour  passed  off  quietly.  Tom  retired 
into  the  inner-room,  and  took  up  Grey's  lesson,  which  he  had 
been  reading  to  the  boys  from  a  large  Bible  with  pictures. 
Out  of  consideration  for  their  natural  and  acquired  restlessness, 
the  little  fellows,  who  were  all  between  eight  and  eleven  years, 
old,  were  only  kept  sitting  at  their  pot-hooks  and  spelling  for 
the  first  hour,  and  then  were  allowed  to  crowd  round  the 
teacher,  who  read  and  talked  to  them,  and  showed  them  the 
pictures.  Tom  found  the  Bible  open  at  the  story  of  the  prod- 
igal son,  and  read  it  out  to  them  as  they  clustered  round  his 
knees.  Some  of  the  outside  ones  fidgeted  about  a  little,  but 
those  close  round  him  listened  with  ears,  and  eyes,  and  bated 
breath ;  and  two  little  blue-eyed  boys  without  shoes — their 
ragged  clothes  concealed  by  long  pinafores  which  their  widowed 
mother  had  put  on  clean  to  send  them  to  school  in — leaned 
against  him  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  his  heart  warmed 
to  the  touch  and  the  look.  "  Please,  teacher,  read  it  again," 
they  said,  when  he  finished ;  so  he  read  it  again,  and  sighed 
when  Grey  came  in  and  lighted  a  candle  (for  the  room  was 
getting  dark),  and  said  it  was  time  for  prayers. 

A  few  collects,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  in  which  all  the 
young  voices  joined,  drowning  for  a  minute  the  noises  from 
the  court  outside,  finished  the  evening's  schooling.  The 
children  trooped  out,  and  Grey  went  to  speak  to  the  woman 
who  kept  the  house.  Tom,  left  to  himself,  felt  strangely 
happy,  and,  for  something  to  do,  took  the  snuffers  and  com- 
menced a  crusade  against  a  large  family  of  bugs,  who,  taking 
advantage  of  the  quiet,  came  cruising  out  of  a  crack  in  the 
otherwise  neatly  papered  wall.  Some  dozen  had  fallen  on  his 
spear  when  Grey  re-appeared,  and  was  much  horrified  at  the 
sight.  He  called  the  woman,  and  told  her  to  have  the  hole 
carefully  fumigated  and  mended. 

"I  thought  we  had  killed  them  all  long  ago,"  he  saidj  '*but 
the  place  is  tumbling  down." 

"  It  looks  well  enough,"  said  Tom. 


222  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Yes,  we  have  it  kept  as  tidy  as  possible.  It  ought  to  be, 
at  least,  a  little  better  than  what  the  children  sec  at  home." 
And  so  they  left  the  school  and  court,  and  walked  up  to  col- 
lege. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  Tom  said,  as  they  entered  the 
gate. 

"  To  Hardy's  rooms  ;  will  you  come  ?  " 

*'  No,  not  to-night,"  said  Tom.  "  I  know  that  you  want  to 
be  reading ;  I  should  only  interrupt." 

"  Well,  good-night,  then,"  said  Grey,  and  went  on,  leaving 
Tom  standing  in  the  porch.  On  the  way  up  from  the  school 
he  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Hardy's  rooms  that 
night.  He  longed,  and  yet  feared  to  do  so ;  and,  on  the  whole 
was  not  sorry  for  an  excuse.  Their  first  meeting  must  be  alone, 
and  it  would  be  a  very  embarrassing  one  for  him,  at  any  rate. 
Grey,  he  hoped,  would  tell  Hardy  of  his  visit  to  the  school,  and 
that  would  show  that  he  was  coming  round,  and  make  the 
meeting  easier.  His  talk  with  Grey,  too,  had  removed  one 
great  cause  of  uneasiness  from  his  mind.  It  was  now  quite 
clear  that  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  quarrel,  and,  if  Hardy  had 
not  told  him,  no  one  else  could  know  of  it. 

Altogether  he  strolled  into  the  quadrangle  a  happier  and 
sounder  man  than  he  had  been  since  his  first  visit  to  the 
Choughs,  and  looked  up  and  answered  with  his  old  look  and 
voice  when  he  heard  his  name  called  from  one  of  the  first-floor 
windows. 

The  hailer  was  Drysdale,  who  was  leaning  out  in  lounging 
coat  and  velvet  cap,  and  enjoying  a  cigar  as  usual,  in  the  midst 
of  the  flowers  of  his  hanging  garden. 

"  You've  heard  the  good  news,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No ;  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  Blake  has  got  the  Latin  verse." 

"  Hurrah  !     I'm  so  glad." 

"  Come  up  and  have  a  weed."  Tom  ran  up  the  staircase 
and  into  Drysdale's  rooms,  and  was  leaning  out  of  the  window 
at  his  side  in  another  minute. 

"What  does  he  get  by  it  ?  "  he  said  ;  '*  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  No ;  some  books  bound  in  Russia,  I  dare  say,  with  the  Ox- 
ford arms,  and  '  Dominus  illuminatio  mea'  on  the  back." 

"No  money?" 

"Not  much — perhaps  a  ten'ner,"  answered  Drysdale,  "but 
no  end  of  icuSos,  I  suppose." 

"  It  makes  it  look  well  for  his  first,  don't  you  think?  But  I 
wish  he  had  got  some  money  for  it.  I  often  feel  very  uncom- 
fortable about  that  bill ;  don't  you  ?  " 


A  PROMISE  OF  FAIRER  WEATHER.  223 

"  Not  I ;  what's  the  good  ?  It's  nothing  when  you  are  used 
to  it.  Besides,  it  don't  fall  due  for  another  month." 

"But  if  Blake  can't  meet  it  then?"  said  Torn. 

""Well,  it  will  be  vacation,  and  I'll  trouble  greasy  Benjamin 
to  catch  me  then." 

" But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  won't  pay  it?"  said  Tom, 
in  horror. 

"Pay  it!  You  may  trust  Benjamin  for  that.  He'll  pull 
*ouml  his  little  usuries  somehow." 

"Only  we  have  promised  to  pay  on  a  certain  day,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  that's  the  form.  That  only  means  that  he 
cau't  pinch  us  sooner." 

"  I  do  hope,  though,  Drysdale,  that  it  will  be  paid  on  the 
day,"  said  Tom,  who  could  not  quite  swallow  the  notion  of  for- 
feiting his  word,  even  though  it  were  only  a  promise  to  pay  to 
a  scoundrel. 

"  All  right.  You've  nothing  to  do  with  it,  remember.  He 
won't  bother  you.  Besides,  you  can  plead  infancy,  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst.  There's  such  a  queer  old  bird  gone  to 
your  friend  Hardy's  rooms." 

The  mention  of  Hardy  broke  the  disagreeable  train  of 
thought  into  which  Tom  was  falling,  and  he  listened  eagerly 
as  Drysdale  went  on. 

"  It  was  about  half  an  hour  ago.  I  was  looking  out  here, 
and  saw  an  old  fellow  come  hobbling  into  quad  on  two  sticks, 
in  a  shady  blue  uniform  coat  and  white  trousers.  The  kind  of 
old  boy  you  read  about  in  books,  you  know;  Commodore 
Trunnion,  or  Uncle  Toby,  or  one  of  that  sort.  Well,  I 
watched  him  backing  and  filing  about  the  quad,  and  trying 
one  staircase  and  another ;  but  there  was  nobody  about.  So 
down  I  trotted,  and  went  up  to  him  for  fun,  and  to  see  what 
be  was  after.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play,  if  you  could  have 
seen  it.  I  was  ass  enough  to  take  off  my  cap  and  make  a  low 
bow  as  I  came  up  to  him,  and  he  pulled  off  his  uniform  cap  in 
return,  and  we  stood  there  bowing  to  one  another.  He  was  a 
thorough  old  gentleman,  and  I  felt  rather  foolish  for  fear  he 
should  see  that  I  expected  a  lark  when  I  came  out.  But  I 
don't  think  he  had  an  idea  of  it,  and  only  set  my  capping  him 
down  to  the  wonderful  good  manners  of  the  college.  So  we 
got  quite  thick,  and  I  piloted  him  across  to  Hardy  s  staircase 
in  the  back  quad.  I  wanted  him  to  come  up  and  quench,  but 
he  declined,  with  many  apologies.  I'm  sure  he  is  a  char- 
acter." 

"  He  must  be  Hardy's  father,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.     But  is  his  father  in  the  navy  ?  " 


224  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"He  is  a  retired  captain." 

"  Then  no  doubt  you're  right.  What  shall  we  do  ?  Have  a 
hand  at  picquet  ?  'Some  men  will  be  here  directly.  Only  for 
love." 

Tom  declined  the  proffered  game,  and  went  off  soon  after 
to  his  own  rooms,  a  happier  man  than  he  had  been  since  his 
fivst  night  at  the  Choughs. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    RECONCILIATION. 

TOM  rosa  in  the  morning  with  a  presentiment  that  all  would 
be  over  now  before  long,  and,  to  make  his  presentiment  come 
true,  resolved,  before  night,  to  go  himself  to  Hardy  and  give 
in.  All  he  reserved  to  himself  was  the  liberty  to  do  it  in  the 
manner  which  would  be  least  painful  to  himself.  He  was 
greatly  annoyed,  therefore,  when  Hardy  did  not  appear  at 
morning  chapel ;  for  he  had  fixed  on  the  leaving  chapel  as  the 
least  unpleasant  time  in  which  to  begin  his  confession,  and  was 
going  to  catch  Hardy  then,  and  follow  him  to  his  rooms.  All 
the  morning,  too,  in  answer  to  his  inquiries  by  his  scout  Wig- 
gins, Hardy  s  scout  replied  that  his  master  was  out,  or  busy. 
He  did  not  come  to  the  boats,  he  did  not  appear  in  hall ;  so 
that,  after  hall,  when  Tom  went  back  to  his  own  rooms,  as  he 
did  at  once,  instead  of  sauntering  out  of  college,  or  going  to  a 
wine  party,  he  was  quite  out  of  heart  at  his  bad  luck,  and  be- 
gan to  be  afraid  that  he  would  have  to  sleep  on  his  unhealed 
wound  another  night. 

He  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair,  and  fell  to  musing,  and  thought 
how  wonderfully  his  life  had  been  changed  in  these  few  short 
weeks.  He  could  hardly  get  back  across  the  gulf  which  sepa- 
rated him  from  the  self  who  came  back  into  those  rooms  after 
Easter,  full  of  anticipations  of  the  pleasures  and  delights  of 
the  coming  summer  term  and  vacation.  To  his  own  surprise 
he  didn't  seem  much  to  regret  the  loss  of  his  cMteaux  en  jEs- 
pagne,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction  in  their  utter 
overthrow. 

While  occupied  with  these  thoughts,  he  heard  talking  on  his 
stairs,  accompanied  by  a  strange  lumbering  tread.  These  came 
nearer  ;  and  at  last  stopped  just  outside  his  door,  which  opened 
in  another  moment,  and  Wiggins  announced, — 

"  Capting  Hardy,  sir." 


THE  RECONCILIATION.  225 

Torn  jumped  to  his  legs,  and  felt  himself  color  painfully. 
"  Here,  Wiggins,"  said  he,  "  wheel  round  that  arm-chair  for 
Captain  Hardy.  I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  and  ho 
hastened  round  himself  to  meet  the  old  gentleman,  holding 
out  his  hand,  which  the  visitor  took  very  cordially,  as  soon  as 
oe  had  passed  his  heavy  stick  to  his  left  hand,  and  balanced 
ftimself  safely  upon  it. 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  thank  you,;'  said  the  old  man  after  a  few 
faoments'  pause,  "I  find  your  companion  ladders  rather  steep;" 
ind  then  he  sat  down  with  some  difficulty. 

Tom  took  the  captain's  stick  and  undress  cap,  and  put  then; 
reverentially  on  his  sideboard ;  and  then,  to  get  rid  of  some 
little  nervousness  which  he  couldn't  help  feeling,  bustled  to 
his  cupboard,  and  helped  Wiggins  to  place  glasses  and  biscuits 
on  the  table.  "  Now,  sir,  what  will  you  take  ?  I  have  port, 
sherry,  and  whiskey  here,  and  can  get  you  anything  else. 
Wiggins,  run  to  Hinton's  and  get  some  dessert." 

"  No  dessert,  thank  you,  for  me,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  I'll  take 
a  cup  of  coffee,  or  a  glass  of  grog,  or  anything  you  have  ready. 
Don't  open  wine  for  me,  pray,  sir." 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  the  better  for  being  opened,"  said  Tom,  work- 
ing away  at  a  bottle  of  sherry  with  his  corkscrew — "and, 
Wiggins,  get  some  coffee  and  anchovy  toast  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  and  just  put  out  some  tumblers  and  toddy  ladles,  and 
bring  up  boiling  water  with  the  coffee." 

While  making  his  hospitable  preparations,  Tom  managed  to 
get  many  side-glances  at  the  old  man,  who  sat  looking  steadily 
and  abstractedly  before  him  into  the  fireplace,  and  was  much 
struck  and  touched  by  the  picture.  The  sailor  wore  a  well- 
preserved  old  undress  uniform  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  white 
drill  trousers ;  he  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  but  gaunt  and 
massive,  and  Tom  recognized  the  framework  of  the  long  arras 
and  grand  shoulders  and  chest  which  he  had  so  often  admired 
in  the  son.  His  right  leg  was  quite  stiff  from  an  old  wound  on 
the  kneecap ;  the  left  eye  was  sightless,  and  the  scar  of  a  cutlass 
travelled  down  the  drooping  lid  and  on  to  the  weather-beaten 
cheek  below.  His  head  was  high  and  broad,  his  hair  and 
whiskers  silver  white,  while  the  shaggy  eyebrows  were  scarcely 
grizzled.  His  face  was  deeply  lined,  and  the  long,  clean-cut 
lower  jaw,  and  drawn  look  about  the  month,  gave  a  grim  ex- 
pression to  the  face  at  the  first  glance,  which  wore  off  as  you 
looked,  leaving,  however,  on  most  men  who  thought  about  it, 
the  impression  which  fastened  on  our  hero,  "An  awkward 
man  to  have  met  at  the  head  of  boarders  towards  the  end  of  the 
great  war." 


226  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

In  a  minuxe  or  two  Tom,  having  completed  his  duties,  faced 
the  old  sailor,  much  re-assured  by  his  covert  inspection  3  and, 
pouring  himself  out  a  glass  of  sherry,  pushed  the  decanter 
across,  and  drank  to  his  guest. 

"  Your  health,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  thank  you  very  much  for 
eoming  up  to  see  me." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  rousing  himself  nnd  fill- 
ing, "  I  drink  to  you,  sir.  The  fact  is,  I  took  a  great  liberty  in 
coining  up  to  your  rooms  in  this  off-hand  way,  without  calling 
or  sending  up,  but  you'll  excuse  it  in  an  old  sailor."  Here  the 
captain  took  to  his  glass,  and  seemed  a  little  embarrassed.  Tom 
felt  embarrassed  also,  feeling  that  something  was  coming,  and 
could  only  think  of  asking  how  the  captain  liked  the  sherry. 
The  captain  liked  the  sherry  very  much.  Then,  suddenly 
clearing  his  throat,  he  went  on.  "  I  felt,  sir,  that  you  would 
excuse  me,  for  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you."  He  paused  again, 
while  Tom  muttered  something  about  great  pleasure,  and  then 
went  on. 

"  You  know  my  son,  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  sir ;  he  has  been  my  best  friend  up  here ;  I  owe  more 
to  him  than  to  any  man  in  Oxford." 

The  captain's  eye  gleamed  with  pleasure  as  he  replied, 
"Jack  is  a  noble  fellow,  Mr.  Brown,  though  I  say  it,  who  an1 
his  father.  I've  often  promised  myself  a  cruise  to  Oxford 
since  he  has  been  here.  I  came  here,  at  last,  yesterday,  and 
have  been  having  a  long  yarn  with  him.  I  found  there  was 
something  on  his  mind.  He  can't  keep  anything  from  his  old 
father :  and  so  I  drew  out  of  him  that  he  loves  you  as  David 
loved  Jonathan.  He  made  my  old  eye  very  dim  while  he  was 
talking  of  you,  Mr.  Brown.  And  then  I  found  that  you  two 
are  not  as  you  used  to  be.  Some  coldness  sprung  up  between 
you  ;  but  what  about,  I  couldn't  get  at !  Young  men  are  often 
nasty — I  know  I  was,  forty  years  ago — Jack  says  he  has  been 
hasty  with  you.  Now,  that  boy  is  all  that  I  have  in  the  world, 
Mr.  Brown.  I  know  my  boy's  friend  will  like  to  send  an  old 
man  home  with  a  light  heart.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come 
over  to  you,  and  ask  you  to  make  it  up  with  Jack.  I  gave  him 
the  slip  after  dinner  and  here  I  am." 

"  O  sir,  did  he  really  ask  you  to  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  "  he  did  not — I'm  sorry  for  it — 
I  think  Jack  must  be  in  the  wrong,  for  he  said  he  had  been  too 
hasty,  and  yet  he  wouldn't  ask  me  to  come  to  you  and  make 
it  up.  But  he  is  young,  sir ;  young  and  proud.  He  said  he 
couldn't  move  in  it,  his  mind  was  made  up  ;  he  was  wretched 
enough  over  it,  but  the  move  must  come  from  you.  And  so 


THE  RECONCILIATION.  227 

that's  the  favor  I  have  to  ask,  that  you  will  make  it  up  with 
Jack.  It  isn't  often  a  young  man  can  do  such  a  favor  to  an 
old  one — to  an  old  father  with  one  son.  You'll  not  feel  the 
worse  for  having  done  it,  if  it's  ever  so  hard  to  do,  when  you 
come  to  be  my  age."  And  the  old  man  looked  wistfully  across 
the  table,  the  muscles  about  his  mouth  quivering  as  he  ended. 

Tom  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  grasped  the  old  sailor's  hand, 
as  he  felt  the  load  pass  out  of  his  heart.  "  Favor,  sir ! "  he 
said,  "  I  have  been  a  mad  fool  enough  already  in  this  business — 
I  shonUi  '.inve  been  a  double-dyed  scoundrel,  like  enough,  by 
this  time,  but  for  your  son,  and  I've  quarrelled  with  him  for 
stopping  me  at  the  pit's  mouth.  Favor !  If  God  will,  I'll  prove 
somehow  where  the  favor  lies,  and  what  I  owe  to  him  ;  and  to 
you,  sir,  for  coming  to  me  to-night.  Stop  here  two  minutes, 
sir,  and  I'll  run  down  and  bring  him  over." 

Tom  tore  away  to  Hardy's  door  and  knocked.  There  was 
no  pausing  in  the  passage  now.  "  Come  in."  He  opened  the 
door,  but  did  not  enter,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  could  not 
speak.  The  rush  of  associations  which  the  sight  of  the  well- 
known  old  rickety  furniture,  and  the  figure  which  was  seated, 
book  in  hand,  with  its  back  to  the  door  and  its  feet  up  against 
one  side  of  the  mantelpiece,  called  up,  choked  him. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  he  said,  at  last. 

He  saw  the  figure  give  a  start,  and  the  book  trembled  a 
little,  but  then  came  the  answer,  slow  but  firm — 

"I  have  not  changed  my  opinion." 

"  No,  dear  old  boy,  but  I  have,"  and  Tom  rushed  across  to 
his  friend,  dearer  than  ever  to  him  now,  and  threw  his  arm 
round  his  neck ;  and,  if  the  un-English  truth  must  out,  had 
three  parts  of  a  mind  to  kiss  the  rough  face  which  was  now 
working  with  strong  emotion. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  said  Hardy,  as  he  grasped  the  hand  which 
hung  over  his  shoulder. 

"  And,  now,  come  over  to  my  rooms ;  your  father  is  there 
waiting  for  us." 

"What,  the  dear  old  governor?  That's  what  he  has  been 
after,  is  it  ?  I  couldn't  think  where  he  could  have  hove  to,  as 
he  would  say." 

Hardy  put  on  his  cap,  and  the  two  hurried  back  to  Tom's 
rooms,  the  lightest  hearts  in  the  university  of  Oxford. 


228  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

CAPTAIN  HARDY  ENTERTAINED  BY  ST.  AMBROSE. 

THERE  are  moments  in  the  life  of  the  most  self-contained 
and  sober  of  us  all,  when  we  fairly  bubble  over,  like  a  full 
bottle  of  champagne  with  the  cork  out ;  and  this  was  one  of 
them  for  our  hero,  who,  however,  be  it  remarked,  was  neither 
self-contained  nor  sober  by  nature.  When  they  got  back  to 
his  rooms,  he  really  hardly  knew  what  to  do  to  give  vent  to  his 
lightness  of  heart ;  and  Hardy,  though  self-contained  and  sober 
enough  in  general,  was  on  this  occasion  almost  as  bad  as  his 
friend.  They  rattled  on,  talking  out  the  things  which  came 
uppermost,  whatever  the  subject  might  chance  to  be ;  but, 
whether  grave  or  gay,  it  always  ended  after  a  minute  or  two 
in  jokes  not  always  good,  and  chaff,  and  laughter.  The  poor 
captain  was  a  little  puzzled  at  first,  and  made  one  or  two  en- 
deavors to  turn  the  talk  into  improving  channels.  But  very 
soon  he  saw  that  Jack  was  thoroughly  happy,  and  that  was 
always  enough  for  him.  So  he  listened  to  one  and  the  other, 
joining  cheerily  in  the  laugh  whenever  he  could ;  and,  when 
he  couldn't  catch  the  joke,  looking  like  a  benevolent  old  lion, 
and  making  as  much  belief  that  he  had  understood  it  all,  as  the 
simplicity  and  truthfulness  of  his  character  would  allow. 

The  spirits  of  the  two  friends  seemed  inexhaustible.  They 
lasted  out  the  bottle  of  sherry  which  Tom  had  uncorked,  and 
the  remains  of  a  bottle  of  his  famous  port.  He  had  tried  hard 
to  be  allowed  to  open  a  fresh  bottle,  but  the  captain  had  made 
such  a  point  of  his  not  doing  so,  that  he  had  given  in  for 
hospitality's  sake.  They  lasted  out  the  coffee  and  anchovy 
toast ;  after  which  the  captain  made  a  little  effort  at  moving, 
which  was  supplicatingly  stopped  by  Tom. 

"Oh,  pray,  don't  go,  Captain  Hardy.  I  haven't  been  so 
happy  for  months.  Besides,  I  must  brew  you  a  glnss  of  grog. 
I  pride  myself  on  my  brew.  Your  son,  there,  will  tell  you 
that  I  arn  a  dead  hand  at  it.  Here,  Wiggins,  a  lemon ! " 
shouted  Tom. 

"  Well,  for  once  in  a  way,  I  suppose.  Eh,  Jack  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  looking  at  his  son. 

"Oh,  yes,  father.  You  mayn't  know  it,  Brown,  but,  if  there 
is  one  thing  harder  to  do  than  another,  it  is  to  get  an  old  sailor 
like  my  father  to  take  a  glass  of  grog  at  night. 


CATAIN  HARDY  ENTERTAINED  BY  8T.  AMBROSE.    229 

The  captain  laughed  a  little  laugh,  and  shook  his  thick  stick 
at  his  son  who  went  on. 

"And  as  for  asking  him  to  take  a  pipe  with  it — " 

"Dear  me,"  said  Tom,  "I  quite  forgot.  I  really  beg  youf 
pardon,  Captain  Hardy ;  "  and  he  put  down  the  lemon  he  was 
squeezing,  and  produced  a  box  of  cigars. 

"  It's  all  Jack's  nonsense,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  holding  out 
his  hand,  nevertheless,  for  the  box. 

"  Now,  father,  don't  be  absurd,"  interrupted  Hardy,  snatch- 
ing  the  box  away  from  him.  "  You  might  as  well  give  him  a 
glass  of  absinthe.  He  is  churchwarden  at  home,  and  can't 
ctnoke  anything  but  a  long  clay." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  I  haven't  one  here,  but  I  can  send  out  in  a 
minute."  And  Tom  was  making  for  the  door  to  shout  for 
Wiggins. 

"  No,  don't  call.     I'll  fetch  some  from  my  rooms." 

When  Hardy  left  the  room,  Tom  squeezed  away  at  his  lemon, 
and  was  preparing  himself  for  a  speech  to  Captain  Hardy  full 
of  confession  and  gratitude.  But  the  captain  was  before  him, 
and  led  the  conversation  into  a  most  unexpected  channel. 

"  I  suppose,  now,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  began,  "  you  don't  find 
any  difficulty  in  construing  your  Thucydides  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir,"  said  Tom,  laughing.  "  I  find  him  a  very 
tough  old  customer,  except  in  the  simplest  narrative." 

"  For  my  part/'  said  the  captain,  "  I  can't  get  on  at  all,  I 
find,  without  a  translation.  But  you  see,  sir,  I  had  none  of 
the  advantages  which  young  men  have  up  here.  In  fact,  M: 
Brown,  I  didn't  begin  Greek  till  Jack  was  nearly  ten  year- 
old."  The  captain  in  his  secret  heart  was  prouder  of  his 
partial  victory  over  the  Greek  tongue  in  his  old  age,  than  oi? 
his  undisputed  triumphs  over  the  French  in  his  youth,  and  wai. 
not  averse  to  talking  of  it. 

"  I  wonder  that  you  ever  began  it  at  all,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  wouldn't  wonder  if  you  knew  how  an  uneducatec* 
man  like  me  feels,  when  he  comes  to  a  place  like  Oxford." 

"  Uneducated,  sir ! "  said  Tom.  "  Why  your  education  has 
been  worth  twice  as  much,  I'm  sure,  as  any  we  get  here." 

"  No,  sir ;  we  never  learned  anything  in  the  navy  when  I 
was  a  youngster,  except  a  little  rule-of-thumb  mathematics. 
One  picked  up  a  sort  of  smattering  of  a  language  or  two 
knocking  about  the  world,  but  no  grammatical  knowledge, 
nothing  scientific.  If  a  boy  doesn't  get  a  method,  he  is  beating 
to  windward  in  a  crank  craft  all  his  life.  He  hasn't  got  any 
regular  place  to  stow  away  what  he  gets  into  his  brains,  and 
so- it  lies  tumbling  about  in  the  hold,  and  he  loses  it,  or  it  gets 


230  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

damaged  and  is  never  ready  for  use.    You  see  what  1  mean, 
Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  But  I'm  afraid  we  don't  all  of  us  got  much 
method  up  here.  Do  you  really  enjoy  reading  Thucydides 
now,  Captain  Hardy?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir,  very  much,"  said  the  captain  "  There's  ft 
great  deal  in  his  history  to  interest  an  old  sailor,  you  know.  I 
dare  say,  now,  that  I  enjoy  those  parts  about  the  sea-fights 
more  than  you  do."  The  captain  looked  at  Tom  as  if  he  had 
made  an  audacious  remark. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do,  sir,"  said  Tom,  smiling. 

"  Because  you  see,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  captain,  "  when 
one  has  been  in  that  sort  of  thing  one's  self,  one  likes  to  read 
how  people  in  other  times  managed,  and  to  think  what  one 
would  have  done  in  their  place.  I  don't  believe  that  the 
Greeks  just  at  that  time  were  very  resolute  fighters,  though. 
Nelson  or  Collingwood  would  have  finished  that  war  in  a  year 
or  two." 

"  Not  with  triremes,  do  you  think,  sir  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Yes,  sir,  with  any  vessels  which  were  to  be  had,"  said  the 
captain.  "  But  you  are  right  about  triremes.  It  has  always 
been  a  great  puzzle  to  me  how  those  triremes  could  have  been 
worked.  How  do  you  understand  the  three  banks  of  oars,  Mr. 
Brown?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  they  must  have  been  one  above  the 
other  somehow." 

"  But  the  upper  bank  must  have  had  oars  twenty  feet  long 
and  more  in  that  case,"  said  the  captain.  "  You  must  allow 
for  leverage,  you  see." 

"  Of  course,  sir.  When  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  it  isn't  easy 
to  see  how  they  were  manned  and  worked,"  said  Tom. 

"Now  my  notion  about  triremes — "  began  the  captain,  hold- 
ing the  head  of  his  stick  with  both  hands,  and  looking  across 
at  Tom. 

"  Why,  father ! "  cried  Hardy,  returning  at  the  moment  with 
the  pipes,  and  catching  the  captain's  last  word,  "  on  one  of 
your  hobby  horses  already !  You're  not  safe  ! — I  can't  leave 
you  for  two  minutes.  Here's  a  long  pipe  for  you.  How  in 
the  world  did  he  get  on  triremes  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  Tom,  "  but  I  want  to  hear  what  Cap- 
tain Hardy  thinks  about  them.  You  were  saying,  sir,  that  the 
upper  oars  must  have  been  twenty  feet  long  at  least." 

"My  notion  is — "  said  the  captain,  taking  the  pipe  and 
tobacco-pouch  from  his  son's  hand. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  said  Hardy ;  "  I  found  Blake  at  my 


CAPTAIN  HARDY  ENTERTAINED  BY  ST.  AMBROSE.     231 

rooms,  and  asked  him  to  come  over  here.     You  don't  object?" 

"  Object,  my  dear  fellow !  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Now, 
Hardy,  would  you  like  to  have  any  one  else  ?  I  can  send  in  a 
minute." 

"  No  one,  thank  you." 

"  You  won't  stand  on  ceremony  now,  will  you,  with  me  ?  " 
aaid  Tom. 

"  You  see  I  haven't." 

"  And  you  never  will  again  ?  " 

"  No,  never.  Now,  father,  you  can  heave  ahead  about  those 
oars." 

The  captain  went  on  charging  his  pipe,  and  proceeded  ; 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Brown,  they  must  have  been  at  least  twenty 
feet  long,  because,  if  you  allow  the  lowest  bank  of  oars  to  have 
been  three  feet  above  the  water-line,  which  even  Jack  thinks 
they  must  have  been — " 

"Certainly.  That  height  at  least  to  do  any  good,"  said 
Hardy. 

"Not  that  I  think  Jack's  opinion  worth  much  on  the  point," 
went  on  his  father. 

"  It's  very  ungrateful  of  you,  then,  to  say  so,  father,"  said 
Hardy,  "  after  all  the  time  Ive  wasted  trying  to  make  it  all 
clear  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that  Jack's  is  not  a  good  opinion  on  most 
things,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  captain ;  "  but  he  is  all  at  sea 
about  triremes.  He  believes  that  the  men  of  the  uppermost 
bank  rowed  somehow  like  lightermen  on  the  Thames,  walking 
up  and  down." 

"I  object  to  your  statement  of  my  faith,  father,"  said  Hardy. 

"Now  you  know,  Jack,  you  have  said  so,  often." 

*'  I  have  said  they  must  have  stood  up  to  row,  and  so — " 

"  You  would  have  had  awful  confusion,  Jack.  You  must 
have  order  between  decks  when  you're  going  into  action.  Be- 
sides, the  rowers  had  cushions." 

"  That  old  heresy  of  yours  again." 

"  Well,  but  Jack,  they  Aac?cushions.  Didn't  the  rowers  who 
were  marched  across  the  Isthmus  to  man  the  ships  which  were 
to  surprise  the  Piraeus,  carry  their  oars,  thongs,  and  cushions  ?  " 

"  If  they  did,  your  conclusion  doesn't  follow,  father,  that 
they  sat  on  them  to  row." 

"  You  hear,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  captain ;  "  he  admits  my 
point  about  the  cushions." 

"  O  father,  I  hope  you  used  to  fight  the  French  more  fairly," 
eaid  Hardy. 

"But,  didn't  he  ?    Didn't  Jack  admit  my  point?" 


232  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Implicitly,  sir,  I  think,"  said  Tom,  catching  Hardy's  eye, 
which  was  dancing  with  fun. 

"  Of  course  he  did.  You  hear  that,  Jack.  Now  my  notion 
about  triremes — " 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  captain  again,  and  Blake 
came  in  and  was  introduced. 

"  Mr.  Blake  is  almost  our  best  scholar,  father ;  you  shouid 
appeal  to  him  about  the  cushions." 

"  I  am.  very  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  the 
captain  ;  "  I  have  heard  my  son  speak  of  you  often." 

"  We  were  talking  about  triremes,"  said  Tom ;  "  Captain 
Hardy  thinks  the  oars  must  have  been  twenty  feet  long." 

"  Not  easy  to  come  forward  well  with  that  sort  of  oar,"  said 
Blake  ;  "they  must  have  pulled  a  slow  stroke." 

"  Our  torpid  would  have  bumped  the  best  of  them,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  I  don't  think  they  could  have  made  more  than  six  knots/' 
said  the  captain  ;  "  but  yet  they  used  to  sink  one  another, 
and  a  light  boat  going  only  six  knots  couldn't  break  another  in 
two  amidships.  It's  a  puzzling  subject,  Mr.  Blake." 

"It  is,  sir,"  said  Blake  ;  "if  we  only  had  some  of  the  fo'- 
castle  songs  we  should  know  more  about  it.  I'm  afraid  they 
had  no  Dibdin." 

"  i  wish  you  would  turn  one  of  my  father's  favorite  songs 
into  anapaests  for  him,"  said  Hardy. 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  said  Blake. 

" '  Tom  Bowling,'  or  '  The  wind  that  blows,  and  the  ship 
that  goes,  and  the  lass  that  loves  a  sailor.'  " 

"By  the  way,  why  shouldn't  we  hnve  a  song?"  said  Tom. 
"  What  do  you  say,  Captain  Hardy  ?  " 

The  captain  winced  a  little  as  he  saw  his  chance  of  expound- 
ing his  notion  as  to  triremes  slipping  away,  but  answered, — 

"By  all  means,  sir ;  Jack  must  sing  for  me,  though.  Did 
you  ever  hear  him  sing  *  Tom  Bowling'?" 

"  No,  never,  sir.  Why,  Hardy,  you  never  told  me  yo*  could 
sing." 

"  You  never  asked  me,"  said  Hardy,  laughing ;  "  but,  if  I 
sing  for  my  father,  he  must  spin  us  a  yarn." 

*  Ob,  yes ;  will  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  Mr.  Brown  ;  but  I  don't  know  that  you'll 
care  to  listen  to  my  old  jams.  Jack  thinks  everybody  must 
like  them  as  well  as  he,  who  used  to  hear  them  when  he  was  a 
child." 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  that's  famous, — now  Hardy,  strike  up." 

"  After  you.     You  must  set  the  example  in  your  own  rooms." 


CAPTAIN  HARDY  ENTEBTAINED  BT  ST.  AMBROSE.    233 

So  Tom  sang  his  song.  And  the  noise  brought  Drysdale 
and  another  man  up,  who  were  loitering  in  quad  on  the  look- 
out for  something  to  do.  Drysdale  and  the  captain  recognized 
one  another,  and  were  friends  at  once.  And  then  Hardy  sang 
"  Tom  Bowling,"  in  a  style  which  astonished  the  rest  not  a  little 
and  as  usual  nearly  made  his  father  cry  ;  and  Blake  sang,  and 
Drysdale,  and  the  other  man.  And  then  the  captain  was  called 
on  for  his  yarn  ;  and,  the  general  voice  being  for  "  something 
that  had  happened  to  him,"  the  strangest  thing  that  had  ever 
happened  to  him  at  sea,"  the  old  gentleman  laid  down  his  pipe 
and  sat  up  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  on  his  stick  and  be- 
gan. 

THE    CAPTAIN  S    STORY. 

IT  will  be  forty  years  ago,  next  month,  since  the  ship  I  was 
then  in  came  home  from  the  West  Indies  station,  and  was 
paid  off.  I  had  nowhere  in  particular  to  go  just  then,  and  so 
was  very  glad  to  get  a  letter,  the  morning  after  I  went  ashore 
at  Portsmouth,  asking  me  to  go  down  to  Plymouth  for  a  week 
or  so.  It  came  from  an  old  sailor,  a  friend  of  my  family,  who 
had  been  commodore  of  the  fleet.  He  lived  at  Plymouth  ;  he 
was  a  thorough  old  sailor, — what  you  young  men  would  call 
"  an  old  salt," — and  couldn't  live  out  of  sight  of  the  blue  sea 
and  the  shipping.  It  is  a  disease  that  a  good  many  of  us  take 
who  have  spent  our  best  years  on  the  sea.  I  have  it  myself,  a 
sort  of  feeling  that  we  must  be  under  another  kind  of  Provi- 
dence, when  we  look  out  and  see  a  hill  on  this  side  and  a  hill  on 
that.  It's  wonderful  to  see  the  trees  come  out  and  the  corn 
grow,  but  then  it  doesn't  come  so  home  to  an  old  sailor.  I 
know  that  we're  all  just  as  much  under  the  Lord's  hand  on 
shore  as  at  sea  ;  but  you  can't  read  in  a  book  you  haven't  been 
used  to,  and  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  they  see 
the  works  of  the  Lord  and  his  wonders  in  the  deep.  It  isn't 
their  fault  if  they  don't  see  his  wonders  on  the  land  so  easily 
as  other  people. 

But,  for  all  that,  there's  no  man  enjoys  a  cruise  in  the  country 
more  than  a  sailor.  It's  forty  years  ago  since  I  started  for 
Plymouth,  but  I  haven't  forgotten  the  road  a  bit,  or  how 
beautiful  it  was,  all  through  the  New  Forest,  and  over  Salis- 
bury Plain,  and  then  on  by  the  mail  to  Exeter,  and  through 
Devonshire.  It  took  me  three  days  to  get  to  Plymouth,  for  we 
didn't  get  about  so  quick  in  those  days. 

The  commodore  was  very  kind  to  me  when  I  got  there,  and 
I  went  about  with  him  to  the  ships  in  the  bay,  and  through 
the  dockyard,  and  picked  up  a  good  deal  that  was  of  use  to  me 


234  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

afterwards.  I  was  a  lieutenant  in  those  days,  and  had  seen  a 
good  deal  of  service,  and  I  found  the  old  commodore  had  a 
great-nephew  whom  he  had  adopted,  and  had  set  his  whole 
heart  upon.  He  was  an  old  bachelor  himself  but  the  boy  had 
come  to  live  with  him,  and  was  to  go  to  sea  ;  so  he  wanted  to 
put  him  under  some  one  who  would  give  an  eye  to  him  for 
the  first  year  or  two.  He  was  a  light  slip  of  a  boy  then,  four- 
teen years  old,  with  deep-set  blue  eyes  and  long  eyelashes,  and 
cheeks  like  a  girl's  but  as  brave  as  a  lion  and  as  merry  as  a  lark. 
The  old  gentleman  was  very  pleased  to  see  that  we  took  to  one 
another.  We  used  to  bathe  and  boat  together  ;  and  he  was 
never  tired  of  hearing  my  stories  about  the  great  admirals,  and 
the  fleet,  and  the  stations  I  had  been  on. 

Well,  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  apply  for  a  ship  again 
directly,  and  go  up  to  London  with  a  letter  to  the  admiralty 
from  the  commodore,  to  help  things  on.  After  a  month  or 
two,  I  was  appointed  to  a  brig,  lying  at  Spithead ;  and  so  I 
wrote  off  to  the  commodore,  and  he  got  his  boy  a  midship- 
man's berth  on  board,  and  brought  him  to  Portsmouth  himself, 
a  day  or  two  before  we  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean.  The  old 
gentleman  came  on  board  to  see  his  boy's  hammock  slung,  and 
went  below  into  the  cockpit  to  make  sure  that  all  was  right. 
He  only  left  us  by  the  pilot-boat,  when  we  were  well  out  in  the 
channel.  He  was  very  low  at  parting  from  his  boy,  but  bore 
up  as  well  as  he  could ;  and  we  promised  to  write  to  him  from. 
Gibraltar,  and  as  often  afterwards  as  we  had  a  chance. 

I  was  soon  as  proud  and  fond  of  little  Tom  Holdsworth  as  if 
he  had  been  my  own  younger  brother ;  and,  for  that  matter, 
so  were  all  the  crew,  from  our  captain  to  the  cook's  boy.  He 
was  such  a  gallant  youngster,  and  yet  so  gentle.  In  one  cutting- 
out  business  we  had  he  climbed  over  the  boats  wain's  shoulders, 
and  was  almost  first  on  deck ;  how  he  came  out  of  it  without  a 
scratch  I  can't  think  to  this  day.  But  he  hadn't  a  bit  of 
bluster  in  him,  and  was  as  kind  as  a  woman  to  any  one  who 
was  wounded  or  down  with  sickness. 

After  we  had  been  out  about  a  year,  we  were  sent  to  cruise 
off  Malta,  on  the  lookout  for  the  French  fleet.  It  was  a  long 
business,  and  the  post  wasn't  so  good  then  as  it  is  now.  We 
were  sometimes  for  months  without  getting  a  letter,  and  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  happening  at  home,  or  anywhere  else. 
We  had  a  sick  time  too  on  board,  and  at  last  he  got  a  fever. 
He  bore  up  against  it  like  a  man,  and  wouldn't  knock  off  duty  for 
a  long  time.  He  was  midshipman  of  my  watch  ;  so  I  used  to 
make  him  turn  in  early,  and  tried  to  ease  things  to  him  as 
much  as  I  could;  but  he  didn't  pick  up«  and  I  begran  to  #et 


CAPTAIN  HARDY  ENTERTAINED  li  Y  ST.  AMBROSE.     235 

very  anxious  about  him.  I  talked  to  the  doctor,  and  turned 
matters  over  in  my  own  mind,  and  at  last  I  came  to  think  he 
wouldn't  get  any  better  unless  he  could  sleep  out  of  the  cock- 
pit. So,  one  night,  the  20th  of  October  it  was, — I  remember 
it  well  enough,  better  than  I  remember  any  day  since ;  it  was  a 
dirty  night,  blowing  half  a  gale  of  wind  from  the  southward, 
and  we  were  under  close-reefed  topsails, — I  had  the  first  watch, 
and  at  nine  o'clock  I  sent  him  down  to  my  cabin  to  sleep  there, 
where  he  would  be  fresher  and  quieter,  and  I  was  to  turn  into 
his  hammock  when  my  watch  was  over. 

I  was  on  deck  three  houi-s  or  so  after  he  went  down,  and  the 
weather  got  dirtier  and  dirtier,  and  the  scud  drove  by,  and  the 
wind  sang  and  hummed  through  the  rigging — it  made  me 
melancholy  to  listen  to  it.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
youngster  down  below,  and  what  I  should  say  to  his  poor  old 
uncle  if  anything  happened.  Well,  soon  after  midnight  I 
went  down  and  turned  into  his  hammock.  I  didn't  go  to  sleep 
at  once,  for  I  remember  very  well  listening  to  the  creaking  of 
the  ship's  timbers  as  she  rose  to  the  swell,  and  watching  the 
lamp,  which  was  slung  from  the  ceiling,  and  gave  light  enough 
to  make  out  the  other  hammocks  swinging  slowly  all  together. 
At  last,  however,  I  dropped  off,  and  I  reckon  I  must  have  been 
asleep  about  an  hour,  when  I  woke  with  a  start.  For  the  first 
moment,  I  didn't  see  anything  but  the  swinging  hammocks  and 
the  lamp ;  but,  then,  suddenly  I  became  aware  that  some  one 
was  standing  by  my  hammock,  and  I  saw  the  figure  as  plainly 
as  I  see  any  one  of  you  now,  for  the  foot  of  the  hammock  waa 
close  to  the  lamp,  and  the  light  struck  full  across  on  the  head 
and  shoulders,  which  was  all  that  I  could  see  of  him.  There 
he  was,  the  old  commodore ;  his  grizzled  hair  coming  out  from 
under  a  red  woollen  nightcap,  and  his  shoulders  wrapped  in  an 
pld  threadbare  blue  dressing-gown,  which  I  had  often  seen  him 
in.  His  face  looked  pale  and  drawn,  and  there  was  a  wistful, 
'disappointed  look  about  the  eyes.  I  was  so  taken  aback  I 
couldn't  speak,  but  lay  watching  him.  He  looked  full  at  my 
face  once  or  twice,  but  didn't  seem  to  recognize  me ;  and  just 
as  I  was  getting  back  my  tongue  and  going  to  speak,  he  said, 
slowly:  'Where's  Tom?  this  is  his  hammock.  I  can't  see 
Tom;'  and  then  he  looked  vaguely  about  and  passed  away 
somehow,  but  how,  I  couldn't  see.  In  a  moment  or  two  I 
jumped  out  and  hurried  to  my  cabin,  but  young  Holdsworth 
was  fast  asleep.  I  sat  down,  and  wrote  down  just  what  I  had 
seen,  making  a  note  of  the  exact  time,  twenty  minutes  to  two. 
I  didn't  turn  in  again,  but  sat  watching  the  youngster.  When 
he  woke  I  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  anything  of  his  great-uncle 


236  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

by  the  last  mail.  Yes,  he  had  heard  ;  the  old  gentleman  was 
rather  feeble,  but  nothing  particular  the  matter.  I  kept  my 
own  counsel  and  never  told  a  soul  in  the  ship :  and,  when  the 
mail  came  to  hand  a  few  days  afterwards  with  a  letter,  from 
the  commodore  to  his  nephew,  dated  late  in  September,  saying 
that  he  was  well,  I  thought  the  figure  by  my  hammock  must 
have  been  all  my  own  fancy. 

However,  by  the  next  mail  came  the  news  of  the  old  commo- 
dore's death.  It  had  been  a  very  sudden  break-up,  his  execu- 
tor said.  He  had  left  all  his  property,  which  was  not  much,  to 
his  great-nephew,  who  was  to  get  leave  to  come  home  as  soon 
as  ne  could. 

The  first  time  we  touched  at  Malta,  Tom  Holdsworth  left 
us,  and  went  home.  We  followed  about  two  years  afterwards, 
and  the  first  thing  I  did  after  landing  was  to  find  out  the  com- 
modore's executor.  He  was  a  quiet,  dry  little  Plymouth  law- 
yer, and  very  civilly  answered  all  my  questions  about  the  last 
days  of  my  old  friend.  At  last  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  as  near 
as  he  could  the  time  of  his  death ;  and  he  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, and  got  his  diary,  nnd  turned  over  the  leaves.  I  was 
quite  nervous  till  he  looked  up  and  said,  "Twenty-five  minutes 
to  two,  sir,  A.  M.,  on  the  morning  of  October  21st ;  or  it  might 
be  a  few  minutes  later." 

" How  do  you  mean,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  an  odd  story.  The  doctor  was  sit- 
ting with  me,  watching  the  old  man,  and,  as  I  tell  you,  at 
twenty-five  minutes  to  two,  he  got  up  and  said  it  was  all  over. 
We  stood  together,  talking  in  whispers,  for,  it  might  be,  four 
or  five  minutes,  when  the  body  seemed  to  move.  He  was  an 
odd  old  man,  you  know,  the  commodore,  and  we  never  could 
get  him  properly  to  bed,  but  he  lay  in  his  red  nightcap  and 
old  dressing-gown,  with  a  blanket  over  him.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  sight,  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  I  don't  think  one  of  you 
gentlemen,  who  are  bred  to  face  all  manners  of  dangers, 
would  have  liked  it.  As  I  was  saying,  the  body  first  moved, 
and  then  sat  up,  propping  itself  behind  with  its  hands.  The 
eyes  were  wide  open,  and  he  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  and 
said,  slowly,  '  I've  been  to  the  Mediterranean  but  I  didn't  see 
Tom.'  Then  the  body  sank  back  again,  and  this  time  the  old 
commodore  was  really  dead.  But  it  was  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  happen  to  one,  sir.  I  do  not  remember  anything  like  it  in 
my  forty  years'  practice." 


DEPARTURES  EXPECTED  AND  UNEXPECTED.        237 
CHAPTER  XXII. 

DEPARTURES    EXPECTED    AND    UNEXPECTED. 

THERE  was  a  silence  of  a  few  seconds  after  the  captain  had 
finished  his  story,  all  the  men  sitting  with  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
and  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  results  of  their  call.  Prysdale 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence,  which  he  did  with  a  "By 
George  ! "  and  a  long  respiration  ;  but,  as  he  did  not  seem  pre- 
pared with  any  further  remark,  Tom  took  up  the  running 

"  What  a  strange  story;"  he  said ;  "  a: id  that  really  happened 
to  you,  Captain  Hardy  ?  " 

**  To  me,  sir,  in  the  Mediterranean,  more  than  forty  years 
ago." 

"  The  strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  the  old  commodore 
should  have  managed  to  get  all  the  way  to  the  ship,  and  then 
not  have  known  where  his  nephew  was,  said  Blake. 

«  He  only  knew  his  nephew's  berth,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  But  he  might  have  beat  about  through  the  ship  till  he  had 
found  him." 

"You  must  remember  that  he  was  at  his  last  breath,  sir," 
said  the  captain ;  "you  can't  expect  a  man  to  have  his  head  clear 
at  such  a  moment." 

"  Not  a  man,  perhaps,  but  I  should  a  ghost,"  said  Blake. 

"  Time  was  everything  to  him,"  went  on  the  captain,  with- 
out regarding  the  interruption,  "  space  nothing.  But  the  strang- 
est part  of  it  is  that  /should  have  seen  the  figure  at  all.  It's 
true  I  had  been  thinking  of  the  old  uncle  because  of  the  boy's 
illness ;  but  I  can't  suppose  he  was  thinking  of  me,  and,  as  I 
say,  he  never  recognized  me.  I  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  in- 
terest in  such  matters  since  that  time,  but  I  have  never  met 
with  just  such  a  case  as  this." 

"  No,  that  is  the  puzzle.  One  can  fancy  his  appearing  to  his 
nephew  well  enough,"  said  Tom. 

"  We  can't  account  for  these  things,  or  for  a  good  rmoiy  other 
things  which  ought  to  be  quite  as  startling,  only  we  see  them 
every  day.  But  now  I  think  it  is  time  for  us  to  be  going  ;  eh, 
Jack  ?  "  and  the  captain  and  his  son  rose  to  go. 

Tom  saw  that  it  would  be  no  kindness  to  them  to  try  to  pro- 
long the  sitting,  and  so  he  got  up  too,  to  accompany  them  to 
the  gates.  This  broke  up  the  party.  Before  going,  Drysdale, 


238  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

after  whispering  to  Tom,  went  up  to  Captain  Hardy,  and  said— 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor,  sir.  Will  you  and  your 
son  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  We  shall  be  very  happy,  sir,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  think,  father,  you  had  better  breakfast  with  me,  quietly. 
We  are  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Drysdale,  but  I  can't  give  up  a 
whole  morning.  Besides,  I  have  several  things  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  Nonsense,  Jack,"  blurted  out  the  old  sailor,  "  leave  your 
books  alone  for  one  morning.  I'm  come  up  here  to  enjoy  my- 
self, and  see  your  friends." 

Hardy  gave  a  slight  shrug  of  his  shoulders  at  the  word 
friends^  and  Drysdale,  who  saw  it,  looked  a  little  confused. 
He  had  never  asked  Hardy  to  his  rooms  before.  The  captaia 
saw  that  something  was  the  matter  and  hastened  in  his  own 
way  to  make  all  smooth  again. 

"  Never  mind  Jack,  sir,"  he  said,  "  he  shall  come.  It's  a 
8T7eat  treat  to  me  to  be  with  young  men,  especially  when  they 
are  friends  of  my  boy." 

"  I  hope  you'll  come  as  a  personal  favor  to  me,"  said  Drys- 
dale, turning  to  Hardy.  "  Brown,  you'll  bring  him,  wont 
you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure  he'll  come,"  said  Tom. 

"  That's  all  right.  Good-night,  then ;  "  and  Drysdale  went 
off. 

Hardy  and  Tom  accompanied  the  captain  to  the  gate.  Dur- 
ing his  passage  across  the  two  quadrangles,  the  old  gentleman 
was  full  of  the  praises  of  the  men,  and  of  protestations  as  to 
the  improvement  in  social  manners  and  customs  since  his  day, 
when  there  could  have  been  no  such  meeting,  he  declared, 
without  blackguardism  and  drunkenness,  at  least  among  young 
officers,  but  then  they  had  less  to  think  of  than  Oxford  men,  no 
proper  education.  And  so  the  captain  was  evidently  travel- 
ling back  into  the  great  trireme  question  when  they  reached  the 
gate.  As  they  could  go  no  further  with  him,  however,  he  had 
to  carry  away  his  solution  of  the  three-banks-of-oars  difficulty  in 
his  own  bosom  to  the  Mitre. 

"  Don't  let  us  go  in,"  said  Tom,  as  the  gate  closed  on  the 
captain,  and  they  turned  back  into  the  quadrangle,  "let  us 
take  a  turn  or  two ; "  so  they  walked  up  and  down  the  inner 
quad  in  the  starlight. 

Just  at  first  they  were  a  good  deal  embarrassed  and  confused : 
but  before  long,  though  not  without  putting  considerable  force 
on  himself,  Tom  got  back  into  something  like  his  old  familiar 
way  of  mnbosoming  himself  to  his  refound  friend,  and  Hardy 


"EPAETURES  EXPECTED  AND  UNEXPECTED.      239 

showed  more  than  his  old  anxiety  to  meet  him  half-way.  His 
ready  and  undisguised  sympathy  soon  dispersed  the  few  re- 
maining clouds  which  were  still  hanging  between  them ;  and 
Tom  found  it  almost  a  pleasure,  instead  of  a  dreary  task,  as  he 
had  anticipated,  to  make  a  full  confession,  and  state  the  case 
clearly  and  strongly  against  himself  to  one  who  claimed  neither 
by  word  nor  look  the  least  superiority  over  him,  and  never 
seemed  to  remember  that  he  himself  had  heen  ill-treated  in  the 
matter 

"  He  had  such  a  chance  of  lecturing  me  and  didn't  do  it," 
thought  Tom,  afterwards,  when  he  was  considering  why  he 
felt  so  very  grateful  to  Hardy.  "  It  was  so  cunning  of  him, 
too.  If  he  had  begun  lecturing,  I  should  have  begun  to  de- 
fend myself,  and  never  have  felt  half  such  a  scamp  as  I  did 
when  I  was  telling  it  all  out  to  him  in  my  own  way." 

The  result  of  Hardy's  management  was  that  Tom  made  a 
clean  breast  of  it,  telling  everything,  down  to  his  night  at  the 
ragged  school ;  and  what  an  effect  his  chance  opening  of  the 
Apology  had  had  on  him.  Here  for  the  first  time  Hardy  came 
in  with  his  usual  dry,  keen  voice,  "  You  needn't  have  gone  so 
far  back  as  Plato  for  that  lesson." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Tom. 

"  Well,  there's  something  about  an  indwelling  spirit  which 
guideth  every  man  in  St.  Paul,  isn't  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal,"  Tom  answered,  after  a  pause ;  "  but  it 
isn't  the  same  thing." 

"  Why  not  the  same  thing?" 

"  Oh,  surely,  you  must  feel  it.  It  would  be  almost  blasphemy 
in  us  now  to  talk  as  St.  Paul  talked.  It  is  much  easier  to  face 
the  notion,  or  the  fact,  of  a  demon  or  spirit  such  as  Socrates 
felt  to  be  in  him,  than  to  face  what  St.  Paul  seems  to  be 
meaning." 

"  Yes,  much  easier.  The  only  question  is  whether  we  will 
'be  heathens  or  not." 

''  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Tom. 

<*  Why,  a  spirit  was  speaking  to  Socrates,  and  guiding  him. 
He  obeyed  the  guidance,  but  knew  not  whence  it  came.  A 
spirit  is  striving  with  us  too,  and  trying  to  guide  us — we  feel 
that  just  as  much  as  he  did.  Do  we  know  what  spirit  it  is? 
whence  it  comes  ?  Will  we  obey  it  ?  If  we  can't  name  it— 
know  no  more  of  it  than  he  knew  about  his  demon,  of  course, 
we  are  in  no  better  position  than  he — in  fact,  heathens." 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and,  after  a  silent  turn  or  two  more, 
Hardy  said,  "  Let  us  go  in ; "  and  they  went  to  his  rooms. 
When  the  candles  were  lighted,  Tom  saw  the  array  of  books 


240  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

on  the  table,  several  of  them  open,  and  remembered  how  near 
he  examinations  were. 

"  I  see  you  want  to  work,"  he  said.  "  "Well,  good-night.  I 
know  how  fellows  like  you  hate  being  thanked — there,  you 
needn't  wince  ;  I'm  not  going  to  try  it  on.  The  best  way  to 
thank  you,  I  know,  is  to  go  straight  for  the  future.  I'll  do 
that,  please  God,  this  time  at  any  rate.  Now  what  ought  I 
to  do  Hardy  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  very  hard  to  say.  I've  thought  about  it  a  great 
deal  this  last  few  days, — since  I  felt  you  were  coming  round, 
— but  can't  make  up  my  mind.  How  do  you  feel  yourself  ? 
What's  your  own  instinct  about  it?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  must  break  it  all  off  at  once,  completely,"  said 
Tom,  mournfully,  and  half  hoping  that  Hardy  might  not  agree 
with  him. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Hardy;  "but  how?" 

"  In  the  way  that  will  pain  her  least.  I  would  sooner  lose 
my  hand  or  bite  my  tongue  off  than  that  she  should  feel  low- 
ered, or  lose  any  self-respect,  you  know,"  said  Tom,  looking 
helplessly  at  his  friend. 

"Yes,  that's  all  right, — you  must  take  all  you  can  on  your 
own  shoulders.  It  must  leave  a  sting  though  for  both  of  you, 
manage  how  you  will." 

"  But  I  can't  bear  to  let  her  think  I  don't  care  for  her — I 
needn't  do  that — I  can't  do  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  advise.  However,  I  believe  I  was 
wrong  in  thinking  she  cared  for  you  so  much.  She  will  be 
hurt,  of  course — she  can't  help  being  hurt — but  it  won't  be  so 
bad  as  I  used  to  think." 

Torn  made  no  answer;  in  spite  of  all  his  good  resolutions, 
he  was  a  little  piqued  at  this  last  speech.  Hardy  went  on 
presently,  "  I  wish  she  were  well  out  of  Oxford.  It's  a  bad 
town  for  a  girl  to  be  living  in,  especially  as  a  barmaid  in  a 
place  which  we  haunt.  I  don't  know  that  she  will  take  much 
harm  now ;  but  it's  a  very  trying  thing  for  a  girl  of  that  sort 
to  be  thrown  every  day  amongst  a  dozen  young  men  above 
her  in  rank,  and  not  one  in  ten  of  whom  has  any  manliness 
about  him." 

"How  do  you  mean — no  manliness  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  a  girl  in  her  position  isn't  safe  with  us.  If 
we  had  any  manliness  in  us  she  would  be — " 

"You  can't  expect  all  men  to  be  blocks  of  ice,  or  milk-sops," 
said  Tom,  who  was  getting  nettled. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  meant  you,"  said  Hardy ;  "  indeed,  I 
didn't.  But  surely,  think  a  moment ;  is  it  a  proof  of  manli 


DEPARTURES  EXPECTED  Ah'D  UNEXPECTED.      241 

ness  that  the  pure  and  the  weak  should  fear  you  and  shrink 
from  you?  Which  is  the  true — ay,  and  the  brave — man,  he 
who  trembles  before  a  woman,  or  he  before  whom  a  woman 
trembles  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  I  see  what  you  mean,  and  when 
you  put  it  that  way,  it's  clear  enough." 

"But  you're  wrong  in  saying  'neither,'  if  you  do  see  what  I 
mean."  Tom  was  silent.  "  Can  there  be  any  true  manliness 
without  purity  ?  "  went  on  Hardy.  Tom  drew  a  deep  breath, 
but  said  nothing.  "  And  where,  then,  can  you  point  to  a  place 
where  is  so  little  manliness  as  here  ?  It  makes  my  blood  boil 
to  see  what  one  must  see  every  day.  There  are  a  set  of  men 
up  here,  and  have  been  ever  since  I  can  remember  the  place, 
not  one  of  whom  can  look  at  a  modest  woman  without  making 
her  shudder." 

"There  must  always  be  some  blackguards,'*'  said  Tom. 

"Yes  ;  but  unluckily  the  blackguards  set  the  fashion  and 
give  the  tone  to  public  opinion.  I'm  sure  both  of  us  have 
seen  enough  to  know  perfectly  well  that  up  here,  amongst  us 
undergraduates,  men  who  are  deliberately  and  avowedly  profli- 
gates, are  rather  admired  and  courted, — are  said  to  know  the 
world,  and  all  that, — while  a  man  who  tries  to  lead  a  pure  life, 
and  makes  no  secret  of  it,  is  openly  sneered  at  by  them,  looked 
down  on  more  or  less  by  the  great  mass  of  men,  to  use  the 
word  you  used  just  rfow,  thought  a  milksop  by  almost  all." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Tom.  "  There  are 
many  men  who  would  respect  him,  though  they  might  not  be 
able  to  follow  him." 

"Of  course,  I  never  meant  that  there  are  not  many  such, 
but  they  don't  set  the  fashion.  I  am  sure  I'm  right.  Let  us 
try  it  by  the  best  test.  Haven't  you  and  I,  in  our  secret 
hearts,  this  cursed  feeling,  that  the  sort  of  man  we  are  talking 
of  is  a  milksop  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  thought,  Tom  answered,  "  I  am  afraid  I 
have,  but  I  really  am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  it  now,  Hardy. 
But  you  haven't  it.  If  you  had  it  you  could  never  have  spoken 
to  me  as  you  have." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  No  man  is  more  open  than  I  to  the 
bad  influences  of  any  place  he  lives  in.  God  knows  I  am  even 
as  other  men,  and  worse ;  for  I  have  been  taught  ever  since  I 
could  speak,  that  the  crown  of  all  real  manliness,  of  all  Chris- 
tian manliness,  is  purity." 

Neither  of  the  two  spoke  for  some  minutes.  Then  Hardy 
looked  at  his  watch, — 

"  Past  eleven,"  he  said.  "  I  must  do  some  work.  Well, 
Brown,  this  will  be  a  da,r  *o  ^°  vcmembered  in  my  calendar." 


242  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Tom  wrung  his  hand,  but  did  not  venture  to  reply.  As  he 
got  to  the  door,  however,  he  turned  back,  and  said. — 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  write  to  her?" 

"Well,  you  can  try.  You'll  find  it  a  bitter  business.  I 
"ear." 

"  I'll  try,  then.     Good-night." 

Tom  went  to  his  own  rooms,  and  set  to  work  to  write  his 
letter ;  and  certainly  found  it  as  difficult  and  unpleasant  a  task 
as  he  had  ever  set  himself  to  work  upon.  Half  a  dozen  times 
he  tore  up  sheet  after  sheet  of  his  attempts ;  and  got  up  and 
walked  about,  and  plunged  and  kicked  mentally  against  the 
Cullar  and  traces  in  which  he  had  harnessed  himself  by  his 
friend's  help, — trying  to  convince  himself  that  Hardy  was  a 
Puritan,  who  had  lived  quite  differently  from  other  men,  and 
knew  nothing  of  what  a  man  ought  to  do  in  a  case  like  this. 
That  after  all,  very  little  harm  had  been  done !  The  world 
would  never  go  on  at  all  if  people  were  to  be  so  scrupulous ! 
Probably,  not  another  man  in  the  college,  except  Grey,  per- 
haps, would  think  anything  of  what  he  had  done!  Done! — . 
why,  what  had  he  done  ?  He  couldn't  be  taking  it  more  serir 
ously  if  he  had  ruined  her  ! 

At  this  point  he  managed  to  bring  himself  up  sharp  again 
more  than  once.  "  No  thanks  to  me,  at  any  rate  that  she 
isn't  ruined.  Had  I  any  pity,  any  scruples  ?  My  God,  what 
a  mean,  selfish  rascal  I  have  been ! "  and  then  he  sat  down 
again,  and  wrote,  and  scratched  out  what  he  had  written,  till 
the  other  fit  came  on,  and  something  of  the  same  process  had 
to  be  gone  through  again. 

I  am  sure  all  readers  must  recognize  the  process,  and  will 
remember  many  occasions  on  which  they  have  had  to  put 
bridle  and  bit  on,  and  ride  themselves  as  if  they  had  been 
horses  or  mules  without  understanding ;  and  what  a  trying 
business  it  was — as  bad  as  getting  a  young  colt  past  a  gypsy 
encampment  in  a  narrow  lane. 

At  last,  after  many  trials,  Tom  got  himself  well  in  hand,  and 
produced  something  which  seemed  to  satisfy  him ;  for,  after 
leading  it  three  or  four  times,  he  put  it  in  a  cover,  with  a 
small  case,  which  he  produced  from  his  desk,  sealed  it  di- 
rected it,  and  then  went  to  bed. 

Next  morning,  after  chapel,  he  joined  Hardy,  and  walked 
to  his  rooms  with  him,  and  after  a  few  words  on  indifferent 
matters,  said, — 

"  Well,  I  wrote  my  letter  last  night." 

"  Did  you  satisfy  yourself?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I  don't  know,  though,  on  second  thoughts : 
it  was  very  tough  work-" 


DEPARTURES  EXPECTED  AND  UNEXPECTED.    243 

I  was  afraid  you  would  find  it  so." 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  suppose  my  father  will  be  here  directly." 

"  But  I  wish  you  would  read  it  through,"  said  Tom  produc- 
ing a  copy. 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  it,  I  suppose  I  must ;  but  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  do  any  good." 

Hardy  took  the  letter,  and  sat  down,  and  Tom  drew  a  chair 
close  to  him,  and  watched  his  face  while  he  read : — 

"  It  is  best  for  us  both  that  I  should  not  see  you  any  more, 
at  least  at  present.  I  feel  that  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong. 
I  dare  not  say  much  to  you,  for  fear  of  making  that  wrong 
greater.  I  cannot,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  despise  myself 
now — how  I  long  to  make  you  any  amends  in  my  power.  If 
ever  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  do  hope  that  nothing 
which  has  passed  will  hinder  you,  from  applying  to  me.  You 
will  not  believe  how  it  pains  me  to  write  this ;  how  should 
you  ?  I  don't  deserve  that  you  should  believe  anything  I  say. 
I  must  seem  heartless  to  you ;  I  have  been,  I  am  heartless.  I 
hardly  know  what  I  am  writing.  I  shall  long  all  my  life  to 
hear  good  news  of  you.  I  don't  ask  you  to  pardon  me,  but  if 
you  can  prevail  on  yourself  not  to  send  back  the  enclosed,  and 
will  keep  it  as  a  small  remembrance  of  one  who  is  deeply  sorry 
for  the  wrong  he  has  done  you,  but  who  cannot  and  will  not 
say  he  is  sorry  that  he  ever  met  you,  you  will  be  adding 
another  to  the  many  kindnesses  which  I  have  to  thank  you  for, 
and  which  I  shall  never  forget." 

Hardy  read  it  over  several  times,  as  Tom  watched  impa- 
tiently, unable  to  make  out  anything  from  his  face. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  You  don't  think  there's  anything 
wrong  in  it,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  my  dear  fellow.  I  really  think  it  does  you 
credit.  I  don't  know  what  else  you  could  have  said  very  well, 
only—" 

"Only  what?' 

"  Couldn't ;  you  have  made  it  a  little  shorter?" 

"  No,  I  couldn't ;  but  you  don't  mean  that.  What  did  yon 
mean  by  that  '  only '  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  think  this  letter  will  end  the  business ;  at 
least  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  But  what  more  could  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more,  certainly ;  but  couldn't  you  have  been  a 
little  quieter, — it's  difficult  to  get  the  right  word, — a  little  cooler. 


244  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

perhaps?    Couldn't  you  have  made  tne  part  about  not  seeing 
her  again  a  little  more  decided  ?" 

"  But  you  said  I  needn't  pretend  I  didn't  care  for  her." 

"Did  I?" 

"Yes.     Besides,  it  would  have  been  a  lie." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  a  lie,  certainly.  But  how  ab*ut 
this  *  small  remembrance '  that  you  speak  of  ?  What's  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  nothing!  only  a  little  locket  I  bought  for  her." 

"  With  some  of  your  hair  in  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course !     Come,  now,  there's  no  harm  in  that  ?  " 

"No;  no  harm.     Do  you  think  she  will  wear  it? " 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"  It  may  make  her  think  it  isn't  all  at  an  end,  I'm  afraid.  If 
she  always  wears  your  hair — " 

"  By  Jove,  you're  too  bad,  Hardy.  I  wish  you  had  had  to 
write  it  yourself.  It's  all  very  easy  to  pull  my  letter  to  pieces, 
I  dare  say,  but — " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  read  it,  remember." 

"  No  more  you  did.  I  forgot.  But  I  wish  you  would  just 
write  down  now  what  you  would  have  said." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  see  myself  at  it.  By  the  way  of  course  you 
have  sent  your  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes  I  sent  it  off  before  chapel." 

"  I  thought  so.  In  that  case  I  don't  think  we  need  trouble 
ourselves  further  with  the  form  of  the  document." 

"  Oh,  that's  only  shirking.  How  do  you  know  I  may  not 
want  it  for  the  next  occasion  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  Don't  let  us  begin  laughing  about  it.  A  man 
never  ought  to  have  to  write  such  letters  twice  in  his  life.  If 
he  has,  why  he  may  get  a  good  enough  precedent  for  tlie 
second  out  of  the  <  Complete  Letter  Writer.  " 

"  So  you  won't  correct  my  copy  ?  " 

"  No,  not  I." 

At  this  point  in  their  dialogue,  Captain  Hardy  appeared  on 
the  scene,  and  the  party  went  off  to  Drysdale's  to  breakfast. 

Captain  Hardy's  visit  to  St.  Ambrose  was  a  great  success. 
He  stayed  some  four  or  five  days,  and  saw  everything  that 
was  to  be  seen,  and  enjoyed  it  all  in  a  sort  of  reverent  way 
which  was  almost  comic.  Tom  devoted  himself  to  the  work  of 
cicerone,  and  did  his  best  to  do  the  work  thoroughly.  Oxford 
was  a  sort  of  Utopia  to  the  captain,  who  was  resolutely  bent 
on  seeing  nothing  but  beauty  and  learning  and  wisdom  within 
the  precincts  of  the  univenu**"  On  one  or  two  occasions  his 
faith  was  tnea  soreiy  t>y  tne  signx,  J.!  yriMwr  gentlemen 
fully  apparelled,  dawdling  along  two  together  IB  low, 


DEPARTURES  EXPECTED  AND  UNEXPECTED.     245 

carriages,  or  lying  on  their  backs  in  punts  for  hours  smoking, 
with  not  even  a  BeWs  Life  by  them  to  pass  the  time.  Dawd- 
ling and  doing  nothing  were  the  objects  of -his  special  abhor- 
rence but  with  this  trifling  exception  the  captain  continued 
steadily  to  behold  towers  and  quadrangles  and  chapels  and  the 
inabihtants  of  the  colleges,  through  rose-colored  spectacles.  His 
respect  for  a  "  regular  education,"  and  for  the  seat  of  learning 
at  which  it  was  dispensed,  was  so  strong,  that  he  invested  not 
only  the  tutors,  doctors,  and  proctors  (of  whom  he  saw  little, 
except  at  a  distance),  but  even  the  most  empty-headed  under- 
graduate whose  acquaintance  he  made,  with  a  sort  of  fancy 
halo  of  scientific  knowledge,  and  often  talked  to  those  youths  in 
a  way  which  was  cui'iously  bewildering  and  embarrassing  to 
them.  Drysdale  was  particularly  hit  by  it.  He  had  humor  and 
honesty  enough  himself  to  appreciate  the  captain,  but  it  was  a 
constant  puzzle  to  him  to  know  what  to  make  of  it  all. 

"  He's  a  regular  old  brick,  is  the  captain,"  he  said  to  Tom, 
on  the  last  evening  of  the  old  gentleman's  visit ;  *  but,  by  Jove, 
I  can't  help  thinking  he  must  be  poking  fun  at  us  half  his  time. 
It  is  rather  too  rich  to  hear  him  talking  on  as  if  we  were  all  as 
fond  of  Greek  as  he  seems  to  be,  and  as  if  no  man  ever  got 
drunk  up  here." 

"  I  declare  I  think  he  believes  it,"  said  Tom.  "  You  see 
we're  all  careful  enough  before  him." 

"  That  son  of  his,  too,  must  be  a  goocl  ?:ellow.  Don't  you 
see  he  can  nevei'  have  peached?  His  father  was  telling  me 
last  night  what  a  comfort  it  was  to  him  to  see  that  Jack's  pov- 
erty had  been  no  drawback  to  him.  He  had  always  told  him 
it  would  be  so  amongst  English  gentlemen,  and  now  he  found 
him  living  quietly  and  independently,  and  yet  on  equal  terms, 
and  friends  with  men  far  above  him  in  rank  and  fortune,  '  like 
you,  sir"  the  old  boy  said.  By  Jove,  Brown,  I  felt  devilish 
foolish.  I  believe  I  blushed,  and  it  isn't  often  I  indulge  in 
that  sort  of  luxury.  If  I  weren't  ashamed  of  doing  it  now,  I 
should  try  to  make  friends  with  Hardy.  But  I  don't  know 
how  to  face  him,  and  I  doubt  whether  he  wouldn't  think  me 
too  much  of  a  rip  to  be  intimate  with." 

Tom,  at  his  own  special  request,  attended  the  captain's  de- 
parture, and  took  his  seat  opposite  to  him  and  his  son  at  the 
back  of  the  Southampton  coach,  to  accompany  him  a  few  miles 
out  of  Oxford.  For  the  first  mile,  the  captain  was  full  of  the 
pleasures  of  his  visit,  and  of  invitations  to  Tom  to  come  and 
see  them  in  the  vacation.  If  he  did  not  mind  homely  quarters 
he  would  find  a  hearty  welcome,  and  there  was  no  finer  bath- 
ing and  boating  place  on  the  coast  If  he  liked  to  bring  his 


246  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

gun,  there  were  plenty  of  blue  rock-pigeons  and  sea-otters  in 
the  caves  at  the  point.  Tom  protested,  with  the  greatest  sin- 
cerity, that  there  was  nothing  he  should  enjoy  so  much.  Then 
the  young  men  got  down  to  walk  up  Bagley  Hill,  and  when 
they  mounted  again  found  the  captain  with  a  large  leather- 
case  in  his  hand,  out  of  which  he  took  two  five-pound  notes, 
and  began  pressing  them  on  his  son,  while  Tom  tried  to  look 
as  if  he  did  not  know  what  was  going  on.  For  some  time 
Hardy  steadily  refused,  and  the  contention  became  animated, 
and  it  was  useless  to  pretend  any  longer  not  to  hear. 

"  Why,  Jack,  you're  not  too  proud,  I  hope,  to  take  a  present 
from  your  own  father,"  the  captain  said,  at  last. 

"  But,  my  dear  father,  I  don't  want  the  money.  You  make 
me  a  very  good  allowance  already." 

"  Now,  Jack,  just  listen  to  me,  and  be  reasonable.  You 
know  a  great  many  of  your  friends  have  been  very  hospitable 
to  me ;  I  could  not  return  their  hospitality  myself,  but  I  wish 
you  to  do  so  for  me." 

"  Well,  father,  I  can  do  that  without  this  money." 

"Now,  Jack,"  said  the  captain,  pushing  forward  the  notes 
again, "I  insist  on  your  taking  them.  You  will  pain  me  very 
much  if  you  don't  take  them. 

So  the  son  took  the  notes  at  last,  looking  as  most  men  of  his 
age  would  if  they  had  just  lost  them,  while  the  father's  face 
was  radiant  as  he  replaced  his  pocket-book  in  the  breast-pocket 
inside  his  coat.  His  eye  caught  Tom's  in  the  midst  of  the  oper- 
ation, and  the  latter  could  not  help  looking  a  little  confused, 
as  if  he  had  been  unintentionally  obtruding  on  their  privacy. 
But  the  captain  at  once  laid  his  hand  on  his  knee  and  said, — 

"  A  young  fellow  is  never  the  worse  for  having  a  ten-pound 
note  to  veer  and  haul  on ;  eh,  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  sir.  A  great  deal  better,  I  think,"  said  Tom, 
and  was  quite  comfortable  again.  The  captain  had  no  new 
coat  that  summer,  but  he  always  looked  like  a  gentleman. 

Soon  the  coach  stopped  to  take  up  a  parcel  at  a  cross-road, 
and  the  young  men  got  down.  They  stood  watching  it  until  it 
disappeared  round  a  corner  of  the  road,  and  then  turned  back 
towards  Oxford  and  struck  into  Bagley  Wood,  Hardy  listen- 
ing with  evident  pleasure  to  his  friend's  enthusiastic  praise  of 
his  father.  But  he  was  not  in  a  talking  humor,  and  they  were 
soon  walking  along  together  in  silence. 

This  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  alone  together  since 
the  morning  after  their  reconciliation ;  so,  presently,  Tom 
seized  the  occasion  to  recur  to  the  subject  which  was  upper- 
most in  his  thoughts. 


DEPAETURES  EXPECTED  AND  UNEXPECTED.        247 

"  She  has  never  answered  my  letter,"  he  began,  abruptly. 

"  I'm  very  glad  of  it,"  said  Hardy. 

"But,  why?" 

"  Because,  you  know  you  want  it  all  broken  off  completely." 

"  Yes ;  but  still  she  might  have  just  acknowledged  it.  You 
cUri't  know  how  hard  it  is  to  me  to  keep  away  from  the  place." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  know  it  must  be  hard  work,  but  you  are 
doing  the  right  thing." 

,  "Yes,  I  hope  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sigh.  "I  haven't  been 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  '  The  Choughs '  this  five  days.  The 
old  lady  must  think  it  so  odd." 

Hardy  made  no  reply.  What  could  he  say,  but  that  no 
doubt  she  did  ? 

"  Would  you  mind  doing  me  a  great  favor  ?  "  said  Tom,  after 
u  minute. 

"  Anything  I  can  do.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"Why,  just  to  step  round  on  our  way  back, — I  will  stay  as 
far  off  as  you  like, — and  see  how  things  are  going  on ; — how 
she  is." 

"  Very  well.  Don't  you  like  this  view  of  Oxford  ?  I  always 
think  it  is  the  best  of  them  all." 

"No.  You  don't  see  anything  of  half  the  colleges,"  said 
Tom,  who  was  very  loth  to  leave  the  other  subject  for  the 
picturesque. 

"But  you  get  all  the  spires  and  towers  so  well,  and  the 
river  in  the  foreground.  Look  at  that  shadow  of  a  cloud  skim- 
ming over  Christ  Church  meadow.  It's  a  splendid  old  place 
after  all." 

"  It  may  be  from  a  distance,  to  an  outsider,"  said  Tom ; 
"  but  I  don't  know — it's  an  awfully  chilly,  deadening  kind  of 
place  to  live  in.  There's  something  in  the  life  of  the  place  that 
sits  on  me  like  a  weight,  and  makes  me  feel  dreary." 

"  How  long  have  you  felt  that  ?  You're  coming  out  in  a 
new  line." 

"  I  wish  I  were.  I  want  a  new  line.  I  don't  care  a  straw 
for  cricket ;  I  hardly  like  pulling  ;  and  as  for  those  wine  parties, 
day  after  day,  and  suppers,  night  after  night,  they  turn  me 
sick  to  think  of." 

"  You  have  the  remedy  in  your  own  hands,  at  any  rate," 
said  Hardy,  smiling. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  you  needn't  go  to  them." 

"  Oh !  one  can't  help  going  to  them.  What  else  is  there  to 
do?" 

Tom  waited  for  an  answer,  but  his  companion  only  nodded 


248  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

to  show  that  he  was  listening,  as  he  strolled  on  down  the  path, 
looking  at  the  view. 

"  I  can  say  what  I  feel  to  you,  Hardy.  I  always  have  been 
able,  and  it's  such  a  comfort  to  me  now.  It  was  you  who  put 
these  sort  of  thoughts  into  rny  head,  too,  so  you  ought  to 
sympathize  with  me.'"' 

"  I  do,  my  dear  fellow.  But  you'll  be  all  right  again  in  a 
few  days." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  It  isn't  only  what  you  seem  to  think, 
Hardy.  You  don't  know  me  so  well  as  I  do  you,  after  all. 
No ;  I'm  not  just  love-sick  and  hipped,  because  I  can't  go  and 
see  her.  That  has  something  to  do  with  it,  I  dare  say ;  but 
it's  the  sort  of  shut-up,  selfish  life  we  lead  here  that  I  can't 
stand.  A  man  isn't  meant  to  live  only  with  fellows  like  him- 
self, with  good  allowances  paid  quarterly,  and  no  care  but  how 
to  amuse  themselves.  One  is  old  enough  for  something  better 
than  that,  I'm  sure." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Hardy,  with  provoking  taciturnity. 

"  And  the  moment  one  tries  to  break  through  it,  one  only 
gets  into  trouble." 

"  Yes,  there's  a  good  deal  of  danger  of  that  certainly,"  said 
Hardy. 

"  Don't  you  often  long  to  be  in  contact  with  some  of  the 
realities  of  life,  with  men  and  women  who  haven't  their  bread 
and  butter  all  ready  cut  for  them  ?  How  can  a  place  be  a  uni- 
versity where  no  one  can  come  up  who  hasn't  two  hundred  a 
year  or  so  to  live  on  ?  ', 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  at  Oxford  four  hundred  years  ago, 
when  there  were  more  thousands  here  than  we  have  hundreds." 

"  I  don't  see  that.     It  must  have  been  ten  times  as  bad  then." 

"  Not  at  all.  But  it  must  have  been  a  very  different  state  of 
things  from  ours  ;  they  must  have  been  almost  all  poor  scholars, 
who  worked  for  their  living,  or  lived  on  next  to  nothing." 

"  How  do  you  really  suppose  they  lived  though  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  how  should  you  like  it  now,  if  w« 
had  fifty  poor  scholars  at  St.  Ambrose,  besides  us  servitors- 
say  ten  tailors,  ten  shoemakers,  and  so  on,  who  came  up  from 
love  of  learning,  and  attended  all  the  lectures  with  us,  and  worked 
for  the  present  undergraduates  while  they  were  hunting  and 
cricketing  and  boating  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing.  At  any  rate, 
we  should  save  in  tailors'  bills." 

"  Even  if  we  didn't  get  our  coats  so  well  built,"  said  Hardy, 
laughing.  "  Well,  Brown,  you  have  a  most  catholic  taste,  and 
*  a  capacity  for  taking  in  new  truths,'  all  the  elements  of  a  good 
Radical  in  you." 


THE  ENGLEBOUEN  CONSTABLE.  249 

tt  I  tell  you  I  hate  Radicals!  "   said  Tom,  indignantly. 

"Well,  here  we  are  in  the  town,  I'll  go  round  by  'The 
Choughs '  and  catch  you  up  before  you  get  to  High  Street." 

Tom  left  to  himself,  walked  slowly  on  for  a  little  way,  and 
then  quickly  back  again  in  an  impatient,  restless,  manner,  and 
was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  corner  where  they  had  parted 
when  Hardy  appeared  again.  lie  saw  at  a  glance  that  some* 
tbing  had  happened. 

"  What  is  it  ? — she  is  not  ill  ?  "  he  said  quickly. 

"  No  ;  quite  well,  her  aunt  says." 

"You  didn't  see  her  then  ?  " 

"  No.    The  fact  is  she  has  gone  home." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  EXGLEBOURS  CONSTABLE. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  a  splendid  day  in  the  early  part  of  June, 
some  four  or  five  days  after  the  Sunday  on  which  the  morning 
service  at  Englebourn  was  interrupted  by  the  fire  at  Farmer 
Grove's,  David  Johnson,  tailor  and  constable  of  the  parish,  wns 
sitting  at  his  work,  in  a  small  erection,  half  shed,  half  summer 
house,  which  leaned  against  the  back  of  his  cottage.  Not  that 
David  had  not  a  regular  workshop  with  a  window  looking  into 
the  village  street,  and  a  regular  counter  close  under  it,  on 
which  passers-by  might  see  him  stitching,  and  from  whence  he 
could  gossip  with  them  easily,  as  was  his  wont.  But  although 
the  constable  kept  the  king's  peace  and  made  garments  <if  all 
kinds  for  his  livelihood, — from  the  curate's  frock  down  to  the 
ploughboy's  fustians, — he  was  addicted  for  his  pleasure  and 
solace  to  the  keeping  of  bees.  The  constable's  bees  inhabited 
a  row  of  hives  in  the  narrow  strip  of  garden  which  ran  away  at 
the  back  of  the  cottage.  This  strip  of  garden  was  bordered 
along  the  whole  of  one  side  by  the  rector's  premises.  Now 
honest  David  loved  gossip  well,  and  considered  it  a  part  of  his 
duty  as  constable  to  be  well  up  in  all  events  and  rumors  which 
happened  or  arose  within  his  liberties.  But  he  loved  his  bees 
better  than  gossip,  and,  as  he  was  now  in  hourly  expectation 
that  they  would  be  swarming,  was  working,  as  has  been  said, 
in  his  summer-house,  that  he  might  be  at  hand  at  the  critical 
moment.  The  rough  table  on  which  he  was  seated  commanded 
a  view  of  the  hives  ;  his  big  scissors  and  some  shreds  of  velvet- 
een lay  near  him  on  the  table,  also  the  street-door  key  and  an 
old  shovel,  of  which  the, uses  will  acnear  presently. 


250  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

On  his  knees  lay  the  black  velveteen  coat,  the  Sunday 
garment  of  Harry  Winburn,  to  which  he  was  fitting  new 
sleeves.  In  his  exertions  at  the  top  of  the  chimney  in  putting 
out  the  fire,  Harry  had  grievously  damaged  the  garment  in 
question.  The  farmer  had  presented  him  with  five  shillings  on 
the  occasion,  which  sum  was  quite  inadequate  to  the  purchase 
or  a  new  coat,  and  Harry,  being  too  proud  to  call  the  farmer's 
attention  to  the  special  damage  which  he  had  suffered  in  his 
service,  had  contented  himself  with  bringing  his  old  coat  to  be 
new-sleeved. 

Harry  was  a  favorite  with  the  constable  on  account  of  hig 
intelligence  and  independence,  and  because  of  his  relations 
with  the  farmers  of  Englebourn  on  the  allotment  question. 
Although  by  his  office  the  representative  of  law  and  order  in 
the  parish,  David  was  a  man  of  the  people,  and  sympathized 
with  the  peasantry  more  than  with  the  farmers.  He  had 
passed  some  years  of  his  apprenticeship  at  Reading,  where  he 
had  picked  up  notions  on  political  and  social  questions  much 
ahead  of  the  Englebourn  worthies.  When  he  returned  to  his 
native  village,  being  a  wise  man,  he  had  kept  his  new  lights  in 
the  background,  and  consequently,  had  succeeded  in  the  object 
of  his  ambition,  and  had  been  appointed  constable.  His  reason 
for  seeking  the  post  was  a  desire  to  prove  that  the  old  joke  as 
to  the  manliness  of  tailors  had  no  application  to  his  case,  and 
this  he  had  established  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  the  neighbor- 
hood by  the  resolute  manner  in  which,  whenever  called  on,  he 
performed  his  duties.  And,  now  that  his  character  was  made 
and  his  position  secure,  he  was  not  so  careful  of  betraying  his 
lernings,  and  had  lost  some  custom  amongst  the  farmers  in 
consequence  of  them. 

The  job  on  which  he  was  employed  naturally  turned  his 
thoughts  to  Harry.  He  stitched  away,  now  weighing  in  his 
mind  whether  he  should  not  go  himself  to  Farmer  Grove,  and 
represent  to  him  that  he  ought  to  give  Harry  a  new  coat ;  now 
rejoicing  over  the  fact  that  the  rector  had  decided  to  let  Harry 
have  another  acre  of  the  allotment  land ;  now  speculating  on 
the  attachment  of  his  favorite  to  the  gardener's  daughter,  and 
whether  he  could  do  anything  to  forward  his  suit.  In  the 
pursuit  of  which  thoughts  he  had  forgotten  all  about  his  bees, 
when  suddenly  a  great  humming  arose,  followed  by  a  rush 
through  the  air  like  the  passing  of  an  express  train,  which  re- 
called him  to  himself.  He  jumped  from  the  table,  casting 
aside  the  coat,  and,  seizing  the  key  and  shovel,  hurried  out  into 
the  garden,  beating  the  two  together  with  all  his  might. 

The  process  in  question,  known  in  country  phrase  as  "tang- 


THE  ENOLEBOURN  CONSTABLE.  251 

ing,"  is  founded  upon  the  belief  that  the  bees  will  not  settle 
unless  under  the  influence  of  this  peculiar  music ;  and  the  con- 
stable, holding  faithfully  to  the  popular  belief,  rushed  down 
his  garden  "tanging,"  as  though  his  life  depended  upon  it,  in 
the  hopes  that  the  soothing  sound  would  induce  the  swarm  to 
settle  at  once  on  his  own  apple-trees. 

Is  "tanging"  a  superstition  or  not?  People  learned  in 
bees  ought  to  know,  but  I  never  happened  to  meet  one  who 
had  considered  the  question.  It  is  curious  how  such  beliefs  or 
superstitions  fix  themselves  in  the  popular  mind  of  a  country- 
side, and  are  held  by  wise  and  simple  alike.  David  the  con- 
stable was  a  most  sensible  and  open-minded  man  of  his  time 
and  class,  but  Kemble  or  Akerman,  or  other  learned  Anglo- 
Saxon  scholars,  would  have  vainly  explained  to  him  that "  tang," 
is  but  the  old  word  for  "  to  hold,"  and  that  the  object "  of  "  tang- 
ing "is,  not  to  lure  the  bees  with  sweet  music  of  key  and 
shovel,  but  to  give  notice  to  the  neighbors  that  they  have 
swarmed,  and  that  the  owner  of  the  maternal  hive  means  to 
hold  on  to  his  right  to  the  emigrants.  David  would  have 
listened  to  the  lecture  with  pity,  and  have  retained  unshaken 
belief  in  his  music. 

In  the  present  case,  howevei-,  the  tanging  was  of  little  avail, 
for  the  swarm,  after  wheeling  once  or  twice  in  the  air  disap- 
peared from  the  eyes  of  the  constable  over  the  rector's  wall. 
He  went  on  "  tanging  "  violently  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
paused  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done.  Should  he  get  over 
the  wall  into  the  rector's  garden  at  once,  or  should  he  go 
round  to  ask  leave  to  carry  his  search,  into  the  parsonage 
grounds  ?  As  a  man  and  bee-fancier  he  was  on  the  point  of 
following  straight  at  once,  over  wall  and  fence  ;  but  the  con- 
stable was  also  strong  within  him.  He  was  not  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  old  Simon,  the  rector's  gardener,  and  his  late  op- 
position to  Miss  Winter  in  the  matter  of  the  singing  also  came 
into  his  mind.  So  he  i*esolved  that  the  parish  constable  would 
lose  caste  by  disregarding  his  neighbor's  boundaries,  and  was 
considering  what  to  do  next  when  he  heard  a  footstep  and 
short  cough  on  the  other  side  the  wall  which  he  recognized. 

"  Be  you  there,  Maester  Simon  ?  "  he  called  out.     Where- 
upon the  walker  on  the  other  side  pulled  up,  and  after  a  second 
appeal  answered,  shortly, — 
'"Ees." 

"  Hev'ee  seed  aught  o'  my  bees  ?  Thaay've  a  bin'  and  riz 
and  gone  off  somweres  athert  the  wall." 

"E'es,  I  seen  'em." 
Wer'  be  'em,  then  ? 


252  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Aal-amang  wi  ourn  in  the  limes." 

"  Aal-amang  wi'  yourn  !  "  exclaimed  the  constable.  "Drat- 
tie-em.  Thaay  be  inwore  trouble  than  they  be  wuth." 

"  I  know  as  thaay  wur  yourn  zoon  as  ever  I  sot  eyes  on  'em," 
old  Simon  went  on. 

"  How  did'ee  know  'em  then  ?  "  asked  the  constable. 

"  Cause  thine  be  a'al  zettin'  crass-legged,"  said  Simon,  with 
a  chuckle.  "  Thee  medst  cum  and  pick  'em  all  out  if  thee'st 
a  mind  to  't." 

Simon  was  mollified  by  his  own  joke,  and  broke  into  a  short, 
dry,  cachination,  half  laugh,  half  cough ;  while  the  constable, 
who  was  pleased  and  astonished  to  find  his  neighbor  in  such 
a  good-humor,  hastened  to  get  an  empty  hive  and  a  pair  of 
hedger's  gloves, — fortified  with  which  he  left  his  cottage  and 
made  the  best  of  his  way  up  street  towards  the  rectory  gate, 
hard  by  which  stood  Simon's  cottage.  The  old  gardener  was 
of  an  impatient  nature,  and  the  effect  of  the  joke  had  almost 
time  to  evaporate,  and  Simon  was  fast  relapsing  into  his  usual 
state  of  mind  towards  his  neighbor  before  the  latter  made  his 
appearance. 

"  Wher'  hast  beea  so  long  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  when  the  con- 
stable joined  him. 

"  I  seed  the  young  missus  and  t'other  young  lady  a  standin' 
talkin'  afore  the  door,"  said  David  ;  "  so  I  stopped  back,  so  as 
not  to  disturve  'em." 

"  Be  'em  gone  in  ?     Who  was  'em  talkin'  to  ?  " 

"  To  thy  missus,  and  thy  daarter  too,  I  b'lieve  'twas.  Thaay 
be  both  at  whoam,  beau't  'em  ?  " 

"  Like  enough.     But  what  was  'em  zayin'  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  heer  nothin'  partic'lar,  but  I  judged  as  'twas 
summat  about  Sunday  and  the  fire." 

"  'Tis  na  use  for  thaay  to  go  on  fillin'  our  pleace  wi'  bottles. 
I  d won't  mean  to  take  any  mwore  doctor's  stuff." 

Simon,  it  may  be  said,  by  the  way,  had  obstinately  refused 
to  take  any  medicine  since  his  fall,  and  had  maintained  a  con- 
stant war  on  the  subject,  both  with  his  own  women  and  with 
Miss  Winter,  whom  he  had  impressed  more  than  ever  with  a 
belief  in  his  wrong-headedness. 

"  Ah !  and  how  be  'ee,  tho',  Maester  Simon  ?  "  said  David  ; 
"  I  didn't  mind  to  ax  afore.  You  dwon't  feel  no  wus  for  your 
fall,  I  hopes  ?  " 

"  I  feels  a  bit  stiffish  like,  and  as  if  sumraat  wus  cuttin'  m* 
at  times,  when  I  lifts  up  my  arms." 

"  'Tis  a  mercy  'tis  no  wus,"  said  David ;  "  we  bean't  so 
young  nor  so  lissom  as  we  was,  Maester  Simon." 


TIJE  ENGLEBOUEN  CONSTABLE.  253 

To  which  remark  Simon  replied  by  a  grunt.  He  disliked 
allusions  to  his  age, — a  rare  dislike  among  his  class  in  that  part 
of  the  country.  Most  of  the  people  are  fond  of  making  them- 
selves out  older  than  they  are,  and  love  to  dwell  on  their  ex- 
perience, and  believe,  as  firmly  as  the  rest  of  us,  that  every- 
thing has  altered  for  the  worse  in  the  parish  and  district  since 
their  youth. 

But  Simon,  though  short  of  words  and  temper,  and  nn  un- 
«omfortable  acquaintance  in  consequence,  was  inclined  to  bo 
helpful  enough  in  other  ways.  The  constable,  with  h;s  assist- 
ance, had  very  soon  hived  his  swarm  of  cross-legged  bees. 

Then  the  constable  insisted  on  Simon's  coming  with  him  and 
taking  a  glass  of  ale,  which,  after  a  little  coquetting,  Simon 
consented  to  do.  So,  after  carrying  his  recapture  safely  home, 
and  erecting  the  hive  on  a  three-legged  stand  of  his  own  work- 
manship, he  hastened  to  rejoin  Simon,  and  the  two  soon  found 
themselves  together  in  the  bar  of  the  "Red  Lion." 

The  constable  wished  to  make  the  most  of  this  opportunity, 
and  so  began  at  once  to  pump  Simon  as  to  his  intentions  with 
regard  to  his  daughter.  But  Simon  was  not  easy  to  lead  in 
any  way  whatever,  and  seemed  in  a  more  than  usually  no-busi- 
ness-of-yours  line  about  his  daughter.  Whether  he  had  any 
one  in  his  eye  for  her  or  not,  David  could  not  make  out ;  but  one 
thing  he  did  make  out,  and  it  grieved  him  much.  Old  Simon 
was  in  a  touchy  and  unfriendly  state  of  mind  against  Harry, 
who,  he  said,  was  falling  into  bad  ways,  and  beginning  to  think 
much  too  much  of  hisself.  Why  was  he  to  be  wanting  more 
allotment  ground  than  any  one  else?  Simon  had  himself  given 
Harry  some  advice  on  the  point,  but  not  to  much  purpose,  it 
would  seem,  as  he  summed  up  his  notions  on  the  subject  by  the 
remark  that,  "  'Twas  waste  of  soap  to  lather  an  ass." 

The  constable  now  and  then  made  a  stand  for  his  young 
friend,  but  very  judiciously;  and,  after  feeling  his  way  for 
sometime,  he  came  to  the  conclusion — as,  indeed,  the  truth  wa.° 
— that  Simon  was  jealous  of  Harry's  talent  for  growing  flowers, 
and  had  been  driven  into  his  present  frame  of  mind  at  hearing 
Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin  talking  about  the  flowers  at  Dame 
Winbum's  under  his  very  nose  for  the  last  four  or  five  days. 
They  had  spoken  thus  to  interest  the  old  man,  meaning  to 
praise  Harry  to  him.  The  fact  was,  that  the  old  gardener  was 
one  of  those  men  who  never  can  stand  hearing  other  people 
praised,  and  think  that  all  such  praise  must  be  meant  In  de- 
preciation of  themselves. 

When  they  had  finished  their  ale,  the  afternoon  was  getting 
on,  and  the  constable  rose  to  go  back  to  his  work;  while  old 


254  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Simon  declared  his  intention  of  going  down  to  the  hayfield,  to 
see  how  the  mowing  was  getting  on.  He  was  sure  that  the 
hay  would  never  be  made  properly,  now  that  he  couldn't  be 
about  as  much  as  usual. 

In  another  hour  the  coat  was  finished,  and  the  constable, 
being  uneasy  in  his  mind,  resolved  to  carry  the  garment  home 
himself  at  once,  and  to  have  a  talk  with  Dame  Winburn.  So 
he  wrapped  the  coat  in  a  handkerchief,  put  it  under  his  arm, 
and  set  off  down  the  village. 

He  found  the  dame  busy  with  her  washing ;  and  after  de- 
positing his  parcel  sat  down  on  the  settle  to  have  a  talk  with 
her.  She  soon  got  on  the  subject  which  was  always  upper- 
most in  her  mind,  her  son's  prospects,  and  she  poured  *ut  to 
the  constable  her  troubles.  First  there  was  this  sweethearting 
after  old  Simon's  daughter, — not  that  Dame  Winburn  was 
going  to  say  anything  against  her,  though  she  might  have  her 
thoughts  as  well  as  other  folk,  and  for  her  part  she  liked  to 
see  girls  that  were  fit  for  something  besides  dressing  them- 
selves up  like  their  betters, — but  what  worrited  her  was  to  see 
how  Harry  took  it  to  heart.  He  wasn't  like  himself,  and  she 
couldn't  see  how  it  was  all  to  end.  It  made  him  fractious,  too, 
and  he  was  getting  into  trouble  about  his  work.  He  had  left 
his  regular  place,  and  was  gone  mowing  with  a  gang,  most  of 
them  men  out  of  the  parish  that  she  knew  nothing  about,  and 
likely  not  to  be  the  best  of  company.  And  it  was  all  very 
well  in  harvest  time,  when  they  could  go  and  earn  good  wages 
at  mowing  and  reaping  anywhere  about,  and  no  man  could 
earn  better  than  her  Harry,  but  when  it  came  to  winter  again 
she  didn't  see  but  what  he  might  find  the  want  of  a  regular 
place,  and  then  the  farmers  mightn't  take  him  on ;  and  his 
own  land  that  he  had  got,  and  seemed  to  think  so  much  of, 
mightn't  turn  out  all  he  thought  it  would.  And  so  in 
fact  the  old  lady  was  troubled  in  her  mind,  and  only  made  the 
constable  more  uneasy.  He  had  a  vague  sort  of  impression 
that  he  was  in  some  way  answerable  for  Harry,  who  was  a  good 
deal  with  him,  and  was  fond  of  coming  about  his  place.  And 
although  his  cottage  happened  to  be  next  to  old  Simon's,  which 
might  account  for  the  fact  to  some  extent,  yet  the  constable 
was  conscious  of  having  talked  to  his  young  friend  on  many 
matters  in  a  way  which  might  have  unsettled  him,  and  en- 
couraged his  natural  tendency  to  stand  up  for  his  own  rights 
and  independence,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  this  temper 
was  not  the  one  which  was  likely  to  keep  a  laboring  man  out 
of  trouble  in  the  parish. 

He  did  not  allow  his  own  misgivings,  however,  to  add  to  the 


•    THK  SNGLEBOURN  CONSTABLE,  255 

widow's  troubles,  but,  on  the  contrary,  cheered  her  by  praising 
up  Harry  as  much  as  ever  she  could  desire,  and  prophesying 
that  all  would  come  right,  and  that  those  that  lived  would  see 
her  son  as  respected  as  any  man  in  the  parish,  and  be  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he  were  church-warden  before  he  died.  And 
then,  astonished  at  his  own  boldness,  and  feeling  that  he  wns 
not  capable  of  any  higher  flight  of  imagination,  the  constable 
rose  to  take  his  leave.  He  asked  where  Harry  was  working. 
and,  finding  that  he  was  at  mowing  in  the  Danes'  Close,  set  off 
to  look  after  him.  The  kind-hearted  constable  could  not  shake 
off  the  feeling  that  something  was  going  to  happen  to  Harry 
which  would  get  him  into  trouble,  and  he  wanted  to  assure 
himself  that  as  yet  nothing  had  gone  wrong.  Whenever  one 
has  this  sort  of  vague  feeling  about  a  friend,  there  is  a  natural 
and  irresistible  impulse  to  go  and  look  after  him,  and  to  be 
with  him. 

The  Danes'  Close  was  a  part  of  the  glebe,  a  large  field  of 
some  ten  acres  or  so  in  extent,  close  to  the  village.  Two  foot- 
paths ran  aci-oss  it,  so  that  it  was  almost  common  property, 
and  the  village  children  considered  it  as  much  their  play- 
ground as  the  green  itself.  They  ti-ampled  the  grass  a  good 
deal  more  than  seemed  endurable  in  the  eyes  of  Simon,  who 
managed  the  rector's  farming  operations  as  well  as  the  garden ; 
but  the  children  had  their  own  way,  notwithstanding  the 
threats  he  sometimes  launched  at  them.  Miss  Winter  would 
have  sooner  lost  all  the  hay  than  have  narrowed  their  amuse- 
ments. It  was  the  most  difficult  piece  of  mowing  in  the 
parish,  in  consequence  of  the  tramplings  and  of  the  large  crops 
it  bore.  The  Danes,  or  some  other  unknown  persons,  had 
made  the  land  fat,  perhaps  with  their  carcasses,  and  the  benefit 
had  lasted  to  the  time  of  our  story.  At  any  rate,  the  field 
bore  splendid  crops,  and  the  mowers  always  got  an  extra 
shilling  an  acre  for  cutting  it,  by  Miss  Winter's  special  order, 
which  was  paid  by  Simon  in  the  most  ungracious  manner,  and 
with  many  grumblings  that  it  was  enough  to  ruin  all  the 
mowers  in  the  country-side. 

As  the  constable  got  over  the  stile  into  the  hayfield,  a  great 
part  of  his  misgivings  passed  out  of  his  head.  He  was  a 
simple,  kindly  man,  whose  heart  lay  open  to  all  influences  of 
scene  and  weather,  and  the  Danes'  Close,  full  of  life  and  joy 
and  merry  sounds,  as  seen  under  the  slanting  rays  of  the  even- 
ing sun,  was  just  the  place  to  rub  all  the  wrinkles  out  of  him. 

The  constable,  however,  is  not  singular  in  this  matter. 

What  man  amongst  us  all,  if  he  will  think  the  matter  over 
calmly  and  fairly,  can  honestly  say  that  there  is  any  one  spot 


256  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

on  the  earth's  surface  in  which  he  has  enjoyed  so  much  reaJ, 
wholesome,  happy  life  as  in  a  hayfield  ?  He  may  have  won 
renown  on  horseback  or  on  fool  at  the  sports  and  pastimes  in 
which  Englishmen  glory ;  he  may  have  shaken  off  all  rivals, 
time  after  time,  across  the  vales  of  Aylesbury,  or  of  Berks,  or 
any  other  of  our  famous  hunting  counties;  he  may  have 
stalked  the  oldest  and  shyest  buck  in  Scotch  forests,  and 
killed  the  biggest  salmon  of  the  year  in  the  Tweed,  and  trout 
in  the  Thames ;  he  may  have  made  topping  averages  in  firsts 
t-ate  matches  of  cricket;  or  have  made  long  and  perilous 
inarches,  dear  to  memory,  over  boggy  moor,  or  mountain,  or 
glacier;  he  may  have  successfully  attended  many  breakfast- 
parties  within  drive  of  May  Fair,  on  velvet  lawns,  surrounded 
by  all  the  fairy-land  of  pomp  and  beauty  and  luxury  which 
London  can  pour  out;  he  may  have  shone  at  private  theatri- 
cals and  at-homes,  his  voice  may  have  sounded  over  hushed 
audiences  at  St.  Stephen's,  or  in  the  law  courts ;  or  he  may 
have  had  good  times  in  any  other  scenes  of  pleasure  or  triumph 
open  to  Englishmen ;  but  I  much  doubt  whether,  on  putting 
his  recollections  fairly  and  quietly  together,  he  would  not  say 
at  last  that  the  fresh-mown  hayfield  is  the  place  where  he  has 
spent  the  most  hours  which  he  would  like  to  live  over  again, 
the  fewest  which  he  would  wish  to  forget. 

As  children,  we  stumble  about  the  new-mown  hay,  revelling  in 
the  many  colors  of  the  prostrate  grass  and  wild  flowers,  and  in 
the  power  of  tumbling  where  we  please  without  hurting  our- 
selves ;  as  small  boys,  we  pelt  one  another,  and  the  village 
schoolgirls,  and  our  nursemaids,  and  young-lady  cousins  with 
the  hay,  till,  hot  and  weary,  we  retire  to  tea  or  syllabub  beneath 
the  shade  of  some  great  oak  or  elm  standing  up  like  a  monarch 
out  of  the  fair  pasture ;  or,  following  the  mowers,  we  rush 
with  eagorness  on  the  treasures  disclosed  by  the  scythe-stroke, 
— the  nest  of  the  unhappy  late-laying  titlark,  or  careless  field- 
mouse  ;  as  big  boys,  we  toil  ambitiously  with  the  spare  forks 
and  rakes,  or  climb  into  the  wagons  and  receive  with  open 
arms  the  delicious  load  as  it  is  pitched  up  from  below,  and 
rises  higher  and  higher  as  we  pass  along  the  long  lines  of  hay- 
cocks ;  a  year  or  two  later,  we  are  strolling  there  with  our  first 
sweethearts,  our  souls  and  tongues  loaded  with  sweet  thoughts 
and  soft  speeches ;  we  take  a  turn  with  the  scythe  as  the 
bronzed  mowers  lie  in  the  shade  for  their  short  rest,  and 
willingly  pay  our  footing  for  the  feat.  Again,  we  come  back 
with  book  in  pocket,  and  our  own  children  tumbling  about  as 
we  did  before  them  ;  now  romping  with  them,  and  smothering 
them  with  the  sweet-smelling  load — now  musing  and  reading 
and  dozing  away  the  delicious  summer  evenings.  And  so  shall 


THE  ENGLEBOURN  CONSTABLE.  257 

we  not  come  back  to  the  end,  enjoying  as  grandfathers  the 
loveraaking and  the  rompings  of  younger  generations  yet? 

Were  any  of  us  ever  really  disappointed  or  melancholy  in  a 
hayfield  ?  Did  we  ever  lie  fairly  back  on  a  haycock  and  look 
up  into  the  blue  sky,  and  listen  to  the  merry  sounds,  the 
whetting  of  scythes  and  the  laughing  prattle  of  women  and 
children,  and  think  evil  thoughts  of  the  world  or  our  brethren  ? 
Not  we !  or  if  we  have  so  done,  we  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
ourselves,  and  deserve  never  to  be  out  of  town  again  during 
hay  harvest. 

There  is  something  in  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  hay-field 
which  seems  to  touch  the  same  chord  in  one  as  Lowell's  lines 
in  the  "  Lay  of  Sir  Launfal,"  which  ends, — 

"  For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay; 

We  wear  out  our  lives  with  toiling  and  tasking", 
It  is  only  Heaven  that  is  given  away; 

It  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking. 
There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer, 
And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer." 

But  the  philosophy  of  the  hayfield  remains  to  be  written. 
Let  us  hope  that  whoever  takes  the  subject  in  hand  will  not  dis- 
sipate all  its  sweetness  in  the  process  of  the  inquiry  wherein 
the  charm  lies. 

The  constable  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  speculating  on 
his  own  sensations,  but  was  very  glad,  nevertheless,  to  find  his 
spirits  rising  as  he  stepped  into  the  Danes'  Close.  All  the  hay 
was  down,  except  a  small  piece  in  the  further  corner,  which 
the  mowers  were  upon.  There  were  groups  of  children  in 
many  parts  of  the  field,  and  women  to  look  after  them,  mostly 
sitting  on  the  fresh  swarth,  working  and  gossiping,  while  the 
little  ones  played  about.  He  had  not  gone  twenty  yards 
before  he  was  stopped  by  the  violent  crying  of  a  child ;  and, 
turning  towards  the  voice,  he  saw  a  little  girl  of  six  or  seven, 
who  had  strayed  from  her  mother,  scrambling  out  of  the  ditch, 
and  wringing  her  hands  in  an  agony  of  pain  and  terror.  The 
poor  little  thing  had  fallen  into  a  bed  of  nettles,  and  was  very 
nmch  frightened,  and  not  a  little  hurt.  The  constable  caught 
her  up  in  his  arms,  soothing  her  as  well  as  he  could,  and  hurry- 
ing along  till  he  found  some  dock-leaves,  sat  down  with  her  on 
his  knee,  and  rubbed  her  hands  with  the  leaves,  repeating  the 
old  saw** 

"  Out  nettle, 
In  dock  : 
Dock  shall  ha' 
A  new  smock  j 
Nettle  shan'i 
Ha'  narrunV 


258  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

What  with  rubbing,  and  the  constable's  kind  manner,  and 
listening  to  the  doggerel  rhyme,  and  feeling  that  nettle  would 
get  her  deserts,  the  little  thing  soon  ceased  crying.  But  sev- 
eral groups  had  been  drawn  towards  the  place,  and  amongst 
the  rest  came  Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin,  who  had  been 
within  hearing  of  the  disaster.  The  constable  began  to  feel 
very  nervous  and  uncomfortable,  when  he  looked  up  from  MB 
charitable  occupation,  and  suddenly  found  the  rector's  daughter 
close  to  him.  But  his  nervousness  was  uncalled  for.  The  sight 
of  what  he  was  about,  and  of  the  tender  way  in  which  he  was 
handling  the  child,  drove  all  remembrance  of  his  heresies  and 
conturaaciousness,  in  the  matter  of  psalmody,  out  of  her  head. 
She  greeted  him  with  frankness  and  cordiality,  and,  presently 
— when  he  had  given  up  his  charge  to  the  mother,  who  was  in* 
clined  at  first  to  be  hard  with  the  poor  little  sobbing  truant — 
came  up,  and  said  she  wished  to  speak  a  few  words  to  him. 

David  was  highly  delighted  at  Miss  Winter's  manner;  but 
he  walked  along  by  her  side  not  quite  comfortable  in  his  mind, 
for  fear  lest  she  should  start  the  old  subject  of  dispute,  and  then 
his  duty,  as  a  public  man,  would  have  to  be  done  at  all  risk  of 
offending  her.  He  was  much  comforted  when  she  began  by 
asking  him  whether  he  had  seen  much  of  Widow  Winburn's 
son  lately. 

David  admitted  that  he  generally  saw  him  every  day. 

Did  he  know  that  he  had  left  his  place,  and  had  quarrelled 
with  Mr.  Tester? 

Yes,  David  knew  that  Harry  had  had  words  with  Farmer 
Tester ;  but  Farmer  Tester  was  a  sort  that  it  was  very  hard 
not  to  have  words  with. 

"  Still,  it  is  very  bad,  you  know,  for  so  young  a  man  to  be 
quarrelling  with  the  fanners,"  said  Miss  Winter. 

"  'Twas  the  varmer  as  quarrelled  wi'  he ;  you  see,  miss," 
David  answered,  "which  makes  all  the  odds.  He  cum  to 
Harry  all  in  a  fluster,  and  said  as  how  he  must  drow  up  the 
land  as  he'd  a'got,  or  he's  place — one  or  t'other  on  'em.  And, 
so  you  see,  miss,  as  Harry  wur  kind  o'  druv  to  it.  Twarn't 
likely  as  he  wur  to  drow  up  the  land  now  as  he  wur  just  reppin* 
the  benefit  ov  it,  and  all  for  Varmer  Tester's  place,  wich  be  no 
sich  gurt  things,  miss,  arter  all." 

"  very  likefy  not ;  but  I  fenr  it  may  hinder  his  getting  em- 
ployment. The  other  farmers  will  not  take  him  on  now,  if 
they  can  help  it." 

"  No ;  thaay  falls  out  wi'  one  another  bad  enough,  and  calls 
all  manners  o'  names.  But  thaay  can't  abide  a  poor  man  to 
speak  his  mind,  nor  take  bis  own  part,  not  one  on  'em,"  said 


THE  ENGLEBOURN  CONSTABLE.  259 

David,  looking  at  Miss  Winter,  as  if  doubtful  how  she  might 
take  his  strictures  ;  but  she  went  on,  without  any  show  of  dis- 
sent,— 

"  I  shall  try  to  get  him  to  work  for  my  father ;  but  I  am 
sorry  to  find  that  Siinon  does  not  seem  to  like  the  idea  of 
taking  him  on.  It  is  not  easy  always  to  make  out  Simon's 
meairing.  When  I  spoke  to  him,  he  said  something  about  a 
bleating  sheep  losing  a  bite ;  but  I  should  think  this  young 
man  is  not  much  of  a  talker  in  general?" — she  paused. 

"  That's  true,  miss,"  said  David,  energetically ;  "  there  ain't 
a  quieter-spoken  or  steadier  man  at  his  work  in  the  parish." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Miss  Winter,  **  and 
I  hope  we  may  soon  do  something  for  him.  But  what  I  want 
you  to  do  just  now,  is  to  speak  a  word  to  him  about  the  com- 
pany he  seems  to  be  getting  into." 

The  constable  looked  somewhat  aghast  at  this  speech  of 
Miss  Winter,  but  did  not  answer,  not  knowing  to  what  she 
was  alluding.  She  saw  that  he  did  not  understand,  and  went 
on, — 

"  He  is  mowing  to-day  with  a  gang  from  the  heath  and  the 
next  parish ;  I  am  sure  they  are  very  bad  men  for  him  to  be 
with.  I  was  so  vexed  when  I  found  Simon  had  given  them 
the  job ;  but  he  said  they  would  get  it  all  down  in  a  day,  and 
be  done  with  it,  and  that  was  all  he  cared  for." 

"  And  'tis  a  fine  day's  work,  miss,  for  five  men,"  said  David, 
looking  over  the  field  ;  "and  'tis  good  work,  too,  you  mind  the 
swarth  else,"  and  he  picked  up  a  handful  of  the  fallen  grass  to 
show  her  how  near  the  ground  it  was  cut. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  have  no  doubt  they  are  very  good  mowers,  but 
they  are  not  good  men,  I'm  sure.  There,  do  you  see  now  who 
it  is  that  is  bringing  them  beer  ?  I  hope  you  will  see  Widow 
Winburn's  son,  and  speak  to  him,  and  try  to  keep  him  out  of 
bad  company.  We  should  be  all  so  sorry  if  he  were  to  get 
into  trouble." 

David  promised  to  do  his  best,  and  Miss  Winter  wished  him 
good-evening,  and  rejoined  her  cousin. 

"  Well,  Katie,  will  he  do  your  behest  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  and  I  think  he  is  the  best  person  to  do  it. 
Widow  Winburn  thinks  her  son  minds  him  more  than  any 
one." 

"  Do  you  know  I  don't  think  it  will  ever  go  right.  I'm  sure 
she  doesn't  care  the  least  for  him." 

"Oh!  you  have  only  just  seen  her  once  to-day  for  two  or 
three  minutes." 

"And  then,  that  wretched  old  Simon  is  so  perverse  about 
it,"  said  the  cousin.  "  You  will  never  manage  him." 


260  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  He  is  very  provoking,  certainly ;  but  I  get  my  own  way 
generally,  in  spite  of  him.  And  it  is  such  a  perfect  plan ;  isn  t 
it?" 

"  Oh  !  charming,  if  you  can  only  bring  it  about." 

"  Now  we  must  be  really  going  home,  papa  will  be  getting 
restless."  So  the  young  ladies  left  the  hayfield  deep  in  castle- 
building  for  Harry  Winburn  and  the  gardener's  daughter;  Miss 
Winter  being  no  more  able  to  resist  a  tale  of  true  love  than 
her  cousin,  or  the  rest  of  her  sex.  They  would  have  been  more 
or  less  than  women  if  they  had  not  taken  an  interest  in  so  ab- 
sorbing a  passion  as  poor  Harry's.  By  the  time  they  reached 
the  rectory  gate  they  had  installed  him  in  the  gardener's  cot- 
tage with  his  bride,  and  mother  (for  there  would  be  plenty  of 
room  for  the  widow,  and  it  would  be  so  convenient  to  have  the 
laundry  close  at  hand),  and  had  pensioned  old  Simon,  and  sent 
him  and  his  old  wife  to  wrangle  away  the  rest  of  their  time  in 
the  widow's  cottage.  Castle-building  is  a  delightful  and 
harmless  exercise. 

Meantime,  David  the  constable  had  gone  towards  the  mow- 
ers, who  were  taking  a  short  rest  before  finishing  off  tho  last 
half  acre  which  remained  standing.  The  person  whose  appear- 
ance had  so  horrified  Miss  Winter  was  drawing  beer  for  them 
from  a  small  barrel.  This  was  an  elderly,  raw-boned  woman 
with  a  skin  burnt  as  brown  as  that  of  any  of  the  mowers.  She 
wore  a  man's  hat  and  spencer,  and  had  a  strong,  harsh  voice, 
and  altogether  was  not  a  prepossessing  person.  She  went  by 
the  name  of  Daddy  Cowell  in  the  parish,  and  had  been  for 
years  a  proscribed  person.  She  lived  up  on  the  heath,  often 
worked  in  the  fields,  took  in  lodgers,  and  smoked  a  short  clay 
pipe.  These  eccentricities,  when  added  to  her  half-male  cloth- 
ing, were  quite  enough  to  account  for  the  sort  of  outlawry  in 
which  she  lived.  Miss  Winter,  and  other  good  people  of  En- 
glebourn,  believed  her  capable  of  any  crime,  and  the  children 
were  taught  to  stop  talking  and  playing,  and  run  away  when 
she  came  near  them ;  but  the  constable,  who  had  had  one  or 
two  search-warrants  to  execute  in  her  house,  and  had  otherwise 
had  frequent  occasions  of  getting  acquainted  with  her  in  the 
course  of  his  duties,  had  by  no  means  so  evil  an  opinion  of  her. 
He  had  never  seen  much  harm  in  her,  he  bad  been  heard  to  say, 
and  she  never  made  pretence  to  much  good.  Nevertheless, 
David  was  by  no  means  pleased  to  see  her  acting  as  purveyor 
to  the  gang  which  Harry  had  joined.  He  knew  how  such  con- 
tact would  damage  him  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  parochial  respect- 
abilities, and  was  anxious  to  do  his  best  to  get  clear  of  it. 

With  these  views  he  went  up  to  the  men,  who  were  resting 


THE  SCHOOLS.  261 

nnder  a  large  elm  tree,  and  complimented  them  on  their  day's 
work.  They  were  themselves  well  satisfied  with  it,  and  with 
one  another.  When  men  have  had  sixteen  hours',  or  so,  hard 
mowing  in  company,  and  none  of  them  can  say  that  the  others 
have  not  done  their  fair  share,  they  are  apt  to  respect  one  an- 
other more  at  the  end  of  it.  It  was  Harry's  first  day  with  this 
gang,  who  were  famous  for  going  about  the  neighborhood,  and 
doing  great  feats  in  hay  and  wheat  harvest.  They  were  satis- 
fied with  him  and  he  with  them,  none  the  less  go  probably  in 
his  present  frame  of  mind,  because  they  also  were  loose  on  the 
world,  servants  of  no  regular  master.  It  was  a  bad  time  to 
nake  his  approaches,  the  constable  saw ;  BO,  after  sitting  by 
Harry  until  the  gang  rose  to  finish  off  their  work  in  the  cool 
>f  the  evening,  and  asking  him  to  come  round  by  his  cottage 
>n  his  way  home,  which  Harry  promised  to  do,  he  walked  back 
So  the  village. 


CHAPTER  XXI V.. 

THE    SCHOOLS. 

THERE  is  no  more  characteristic  spot  in  Oxford  than  the 
quadrangle  of  the  schools.  Doubtless  in  the  times  when  the 
university  held  and  exercised  the  privileges  of  infang-thief  and 
outfang-thief,  and  other  such  old-world  rights,  there  must  have 
been  a  place  somewhere  within  the  liberties  devoted  to  ex- 
aminations even  more  exciting  than  the  great-go.  But  since 
alma  mater  has  ceased  to  take  cognizance  of  "treasons,  insur- 
rections, felonies,  and  mayhem,"  it  is  here  in  that  fateful  and 
inexorable  quadrangle,  and  the  buildings  which  surround  it, 
that  she  exercises  her  most  potent  spells  over  the  spirits  of  her 
children.  I  suppose  that  a  man  being  tried  for  his  life  must  be 
more  uncomfortable  than  an  undergraduate  being  examined  for 
his  degree,  and  that  to  be  hung, — perhaps  even  to  be  pilloried, 
— must  be  worse  than  to  be  plucked.  But  after  all,  the  feel- 
ings in  both  cases  must  be  essentially  the  same,  only  more  in- 
tense in  the  former ;  and  an  institution  which  can  examine  a 
man  (in  literis  humanioribus,  in  humanities  so  called)  once  a 
year  for  two  or  three  days  at  a  time,  has  nothing  to  complain 
of,  though  it  has  no  longer  the  power  of  hanging  him  at  once 
out  of  hand. 

The  schools'  quadrangle  is  for  the  most  part  a  lonely  place. 
Men  pass  through  the  melancholy  iron  gates  by  which  that 
quadrangle  is  entered  on  three  sides, — from  Broad  Street, 


262  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

from  the  Ratcliffe,  and  from  New  College  Lane, — when  neces. 
sity  leads  them  that  way,  with  alert  step  and  silently.  No 
nursemaids  or  children  play  about  it.  Nobody  lives  in  it. 
Only  when  the  examinations  are  going  on  you  may  see  a  few 
hooded  figures  who  walk  as  though  conscious  of  the  powers  of 
academic  life  and  death  which  they  wield,  and  a  good  deal  of 
shuddering  undergraduate  life  flitting  about  the  place, — luck- 
less youths,  in  white  ties  and  bands,  who  are  undergoing  the 
peine  forte  et  dure  with  different  degrees  of  composure  ;  and 
their  friends  who  are  there  to  look  after  them.  You  may  go 
in  and  watch  the  torture  yourself  if  you  are  so  minded,  for  the 
vivd  voce  schools  are  open  to  the  public.  But  one  such  experi- 
ment will  be  enough  for  you,  unless  you  are  very  hard-hearted. 
The  sight  of  the  long  table,  behind  which  sit  Minos,  Rhada- 
manthus,  and  Co.,  full-robed,  stern  of  face,  soft  of  speech,  seiz- 
ing their  victim  in  turn,  now  letting  him  run  a  little  way  as  a 
cat  does  a  mouse,  then  drawing  him  back,  with  claw  of  wily 
question,  probing  him  on  this  side  and  that,  turning  him  inside 
out, — the  row  of  victims  opposite,  pale  or  flushed,  of  anxious 
or  careless  mien,  according  to  temperament,  but  one  and  all  on 
the  rack  as  they  bend  over  the  allotted  paper,  or  read  from  the 
well-thumbed  book, — the  scarcely-less-to-be-pitied  row  behind, 
of  future  victims,  "  sitting  for  the  schools,"  as  it  is  called, 
ruthlessly  brought  hither  by  statutes,  to  watch  the  sufferings 
they  must  hereafter  undergo, — should  fill  the  friend  of  suffer- 
ing humanity  with  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears.  Through  the 
long  day  till  four  o'clock,  or  later,  the  torture  lasts.  Then  the 
last  victim  is  dismissed ;  the  men  who  are  "  sitting  for  the 
schools "  fly  all  ways  to  their  colleges,  silently,  in  search  of 
relief  to  their  over-wrought  feelings, — probably  also  of  beer, 
the  undergraduate's  universal  specific.  The  beadles  close  those 
ruthless  doors  for  a  mysterious  half-hour  on  the  examiners. 
Outside  in  the  quadrangle  collect  by  twos  and  threes  the 
friends  of  the  victims  waiting  for  the  re-opening  of  the  door 
and  the  distribution  of  the  "  testamurs."  The  testamurs,  lady 
readers  will  be  pleased  to  understand,  are  certificates  under  the 
hands  of  the  examiners,  that  your  sons,  brothers,  husbands, 
perhaps,  have  successfully  undergone  the  torture.  But,  if  hus- 
bands, oh,  go  not  yourselves,  and  send  not  your  sons  to  wait 
for  the  testamur  of  the  head  of  your  house ;  for  Oxford  has 
seldom  seen  a  sight  over  which  she  would  more  willingly  draw 
the  veil  with  averted  face  than  that  of  the  youth  rushing 
wildly,  dissolved  in  tears,  from  the  schools'  quadrangle,  and 
shouting,  "  Mamma !  papa's  plucked  ;  papa's  plucked ! " 
On  the  occasion  at  which  we  have  now  arrived,  the  pass- 


THE  SCHOOLS.  263 

schools  are  over  already  ;  the  paper-work  of  the  candidates  for 
honors  has  been  going  on  for  the  last  week.  Every  morning 
our  three  St.  Ambrose  acquaintance  have  mustered  with  the 
rest  for  the  anxious  day's  work,  after  such  breakfasts  as  they 
have  been  able  to  eat  under  the  circumstances.  They  take 
their  work  in  very  different  ways.  Grey  rushes  nervously  back 
to  his  rooms  whenever  he  is  out  of  the  schools  for  ten  minutes, 
to  look  up  dates  and  dodges.  He  worries  himself  sadly  over 
every  blunder  which  he  discovers  himself  to  have  made,  and 
sits  up  nearly  all  night  cramming,  always  hoping  for  a  better 
to-morrow.  Blake  keeps  up  his  affected  carelessness  to  the 
last,  quizzing  the  examiners,  iaughing  over  the  shots  he  has 
been  making  in  the  last  paper.  His  shots,  it  must  be  said, 
turn  out  well  for  the  most  part ;  in  the  taste  paper  particularly, 
as  they  compare  notes,  he  seems  to  have  almost  struck  the 
bull's  eye  in  his  answers  to  one  or  two  questions  which  Hardy 
and  Grey  have  passed  over  altogether.  When  he  is  wide  of 
the  mark  he  passes  it  off  with  some  jesting  remark  "that  a 
fool  can  ask  in  five  minutes  more  qiiestions  than  a  wise  man 
can  answer  in  a  week,"  or  "  wish  that  the  examiners  would 
play  fair,  and  change  sides  of  the  table  for  an  hour  with  the 
candidates,  for  a  finish."  But  he,  too,  though  he  does  it  on  the 
sly,  is  cramming  with  his  coach  at  every  available  spare  mo- 
ment. Hardy  had  finished  his  reading  a  full  thirty-six  hours 
before  the  first  day  of  paper-work,  and  had  braced  himself  for 
the  actual  struggle  by  two  good  nights'  rest  and  a  long  day  on 
the  river  with  Tom.  He  had  worked  hard  from  the  first,  and 
so  had  really  mastered  his  books.  And  now  feeling  that  he  has 
fairly  and  honestly  done  his  best,  and  that  if  he  fails  it  will  be 
either  from  bad  luck  or  natural  incapacity,  and  not  from  his 
own  fault,  he  manages  to  keep  a  cooler  head  than  any  of  his 
companions  in  trouble. 

The  week's  paper-work  passes  off  uneventfully  ;  then  comes 
the  viva  voce  work  for  the  candidates  for  honors.  They  go  in 
in  alphabetical  order,  four  a  day,  for  one  more  day's  work,  the 
hardest  of  all,  and  then  there  is  nothing  more  to  do  but  wait 
patiently  for  the  class  list.  On  these  days  there  is  a  good 
attendance  in  the  inclosed  space  to  which  the  public  are  ad- 
mitted. The  front  seats  are  often  occupied  by  the  private 
tutors  of  the  candidates,  who  are  there,  like  Newmarket  train- 
ers, to  see  the  performances  of  their  stables,  marking  how  each 
colt  bears  pressing  and  comports  himself  when  the  pinch 
comes.  They  watch  the  examiners,  too,  carefully,  to  see  what 
line  they  take,  whether  science,  or  history,  or  scholarship  is 
likely  to  telLmost,  that  they  may  handle  the  rest  of  their 


2G4  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

starters  accordingly.  Behind  them,  for  the  most  part,  on  the 
hindermost  benches  of  the  flight  of  raised  steps,  anxious 
younger  brothers  and  friends  sit,  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time, 
flitting  in  and  out  in  much  unrest,  and  making  the  objects  of 
their  solicitude  more  nervous  than  ever  by  their  sympathy. 

It  is  now  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  of  the  viva  voct 
examinations  in  honors.  Blake  is  one  of  the  men  in.  His 
tutor,  Hardy,  Grey,  Tom,  and  other  St.  Ambrose  men,  have  all 
been  in  the  schools  more  or  less  during  his  examination,  and 
now  Hardy  and  Tom  are  waiting  outside  the  doors  for  the 
issuing  of  the  testamurs. 

The  group  is  small  enough.  It  is  so  much  of  course  that  a 
class-man  should  get  his  testamur  that  there  is  no  excitement 
about  it ;  generally  the  man  himself  stops  to  receive  it. 

The  only  anxious  faces  in  the  group  ai-e  Tom's  and  Hardy's. 
They  have  not  exchanged  a  word  for  the  last  few  minutes  in 
their  short  walk  before  the  door.  Now  the  examiners  come 
out  and  walk  away  towards  their  colleges,  and  the  next  minute 
the  door  again  opens  and  the  clerk  of  the  schools  appears  with 
the  slips  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  Now  you'll  see  if  I'm  not  right,"  said  Hardy,  as  they  gath. 
ered  to  the  door  with  the  rest.  "  I  tell  you  there  isn't  the  least 
chance  for  him." 

The  clerk  read  out  the  names  inscribed  on  the  testamurs 
which  he  held,  and  handed  them  to  the  owners. 

"  Haven't  you  one  for  Mr.  Blake  of  St.  Ambrose  £ "  said 
Tom,  desperately,  as  the  clerk  was  closing  the  door. 

"  No,  sir  ;  none  but  those  I  have  just  given  out,"  answered 
the  clerk,  shaking  his  head.  The  door  closed,  and  they  turned 
away  in  silence  for  the  first  minute. 

"I  told  you  how  it  would  be,"  said  Hardy,  as  they  passed 
out  of  the  south  gate  into  the  Ratcliffe  Quadrangle. 

"But  he  seemed  to  be  doing  so  well  when  I  was  in." 

"  You  were  not  there  at  the  time.  I  thought  at  first  they 
would  have  sent  him  out  of  the  schools  at  once." 

"  In  his  divinity,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  was  asked  to  repeat  one  of  the  Articles,  and  didn't 
know  three  words  of  it.  From  that  moment  I  saw  it  was  all 
over.  The  examiner  and  he  both  lost  their  tempers,  and  it 
went  from  bad  to  worse,  till  the  examiner  remarked  that  he 
could  have  answered  one  of  the  questions  he  was  asking  when 
he  was  ten  years  old,  and  Blake  replied,  So  could  he.  They 
gave  him  a  paper  in  divinity  afterwards,  but  you  could  see 
there  was  no  chance  for  hi  n." 

Poor  fellow  1   what  will  he  do,  do  you  think  ?    How  will 
he  take  it  ?  " 


THE  SCHOOLS.  265 

"I  can't  tell.  But  I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  very  serious  mat- 
ter for  him.  He  was  the  ablest  man  in  our  year,  too.  What 
a  pity ! " 

They  got  into  St.  Ambrose  just  as  the  bell  for  afternoon 
chapel  was  going  down,  and  went  in.  Blake  was  there,  and 
one  look  snowed  him  what  had  happened.  In  fact  he  had  ex- 
pected nothing  else  all  day  since  his  breakdown  in  the  Ar- 
ticles. Tom  couldn't  help  watching  him  during  chapel,  and 
afterwards,  on  that  evening,  acknowledged  to  a  friend  that 
whatever  else  you  might  think  of  Blake,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  his  gameness. 

After  chapel  he  loitered  outside  the  door  in  the  quadrangle, 
talking  just  as  usual,  and  before  Hall  he  loitered  on  the  steps 
in  well-feigned  carelessness.  Everybody  else  was  thinking  of 
his  breakdown  ;  some  with  real  sorrow  and  sympathy ;  others 
as  of  any  other  nine  days'  wonder, — pretty  much  as  if  the 
favorite  for  the  Derby  had  broken  down ;  others  with  ill- 
concealed  triumph,  for  Blake  had  many  enemies  amongst  the 
men.  He  himself  was  conscious  enough  of  what  they  were 
thinking  of,  but  maintained  his  easy  gay  manner  through  it 
all,  though  the  effort  it  cost  him  was  tremendous.  The  only 
allusion  he  made  to  what  had  happened  which  Tom  heard  was 
when  he  asked  him  to  wine. 

"Are  you  engaged  to-night,  Brown?"  he  said.  Tom  an- 
swered  in  the  negative.  "  Come  to  me,  then,"  he  went  on. 
"  You  won't  get  another  chance  in  St.  Ambrose.  I  have  a  few 
bottles  of  old  wine  left;  we  may  as  well  floor  them;  they 
won't  bear  moving  to  a  Hall  with  their  master." 

And  then  he  turned  to  some  other  men  and  asked  them, 
every  one  in  fact  whom  he  came  across,  especially  the  domi- 
nant fact  set  with  whom  he  had  chiefly  lived.  These  young 
gentlemen  (of  whom  we  had  a  glimpse  at  the  outset,  but  whose 
company  we  have  carefully  avoided  ever  since,  seeing  that 
their  sayings  and  doings  were  of  a  kind  of  which  the  less  said 
the  better)  had  been  steadily  going  on  in  their  way,  getting 
more  and  more  idle,  reckless,  and  insolent.  Their  doings  had 
been  already  so  scandalous  on  several  occasions  as  to  call  for 
solemn  meetings  of  the  college  authorities ;  but,  no  vigorous 
measures  having  followed,  such  deliberations  had  only  made 
matters  worse,  and  given  the  men  a  notion  that  they  could  do 
what  they  pleased  with  impunity.  This  night  the  climax  had 
come ;  it  was  as  though  the  flood"  of  misrule  had  at  last  broken 
banks  and  overflowed  the  whole  college. 

For  two  hours  the  wine  party  in  Blake's  large  ground-floor 
rooms  was  kept  up  with  a  wild  reckless  mirth,  in  keeping  with 


266  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  host's  temper.  Blake  was  on  his  mettle.  He  had  asked 
every  man  with  whom  he  had  a  speaking  acquaintance,  as  if 
he  wished  to  face  out  his  disaster  at  once  to  the  whole  world. 
Many  of  the  men  came  feeling  uncomfortable,  and  would 
sooner  have  stayed  away  and  treated  the  pluck  as  a  real  mis- 
fortune. But  after  all  Blake  was  the  best  judge  of  how  he 
liked  it  to  be  treated,  and,  if  he  had  a  fancy  for  giving  a  great 
wine  on  the  occasion,  the  civilest  thing  to  do  was  to  go  to  it. 
And  so  they  went,  and  wondered  as  much  as  he  could  desire 
at  the  brilliant  coolness  of  their  host,  speculating  and  doubt- 
ing nevertheless  in  their  own  secret  hearts  whether  it  wasn't 
acting  after  all.  Acting  it  was,  no  doubt,  and  not  worth  the 
doing;  no  acting  is.  But  one  must  make  allowances.  No 
two  men  take  a  thing  just  alike,  and  very  few  can  sit  down 
quietly  when  they  have  lost  a  fall  in  life's  wrestle,  and  say, 
"  Well,  here  I  am,  beaten  no  doubt  this  time.  By  my  o\vn 
fault  too.  Now,  take  a  good  look  at  me,  my  good  friends,  as 
I  know  you  all  want  to  do,  and  say  your  say  out,  for  I  mean 
getting  up  again  directly  and  having  another  turn  at  it." 

Blake  drank  freely  himself,  and  urged  his  guests  to  drink, 
which  was  a  superfluous  courtesy  for  the  most  part.  Most  of 
the  men  left  his  rooms  considerably  excited.  They  had  dis- 
persed for  an  hour  or  so  to  billiards,  or  a  stroll  in  the  town, 
and  at  ten  o'clock  reassembled  at  supper  parties,  of  which 
there  were  several  in  college  this  evening,  especially  a  mon- 
ster one  at  Chanter's  rooms — a  "champagne  supper,"  as  he 
had  carefully  and  ostentatiously  announced  on  the  cards  of  in- 
vitations. This  flaunting  the  champagne  in  their  faces  had  been 
resented  by  Drysdale  and  others,  who  drank  his  champagne  in 
tumblers,  and  then  abused  it  and  clamored  for  beer  in  the 
middle  of  the  supper.  Chanter,  whose  prodigality  in  some 
ways  was  only  exceeded  by  his  general  meanness,  had  lost  his 
temper  at  this  demand,  and  insisted  that,  if  they  wanted  beer, 
they  might  send  for  it  themselves,  for  he  wouldn't  pay  for  it. 
This  protest  was  treated  with  uproarious  contempt,  and  gallons 
of  ale  soon  made  their  appearance  in  college  jugs  and  tankards. 
The  tables  were  cleared,  and  songs  (most  of  them  of  more 
than  doubtful  character),  cigars,  and  all  sorts  of  compounded 
drinks,  from  claret  cup  to  egg  flip,  succeeded.  The  company, 
recruited  constantly  as  men  came  into  college,  was  getting 
more  and  more  excited  every  minute.  The  scouts  cleared 
away  and  carried  off  all  relics  of  the  supper,  and  then  left ; 
still  the  revel  went  on,  till,  by  midnight,  the  men  were  ripe  for 
any  mischief  or  folly  which  those  among  them  who  retained 
any  brains  at  all  could  suggest.  The  signal  for  breaking  up 


THE  SCHOOLS.  267 

was  given  by  the  host's  falling  from  his  seat.  Some  of  the 
men  rose  with  a  shout  to  put  him  to  bed,  which  they  accom- 
plished with  difficulty,  after  dropping  him  several  times,  and 
left  him  to  snore  off  the  effects  of  his  debauch  with  one  of  his 
boots  on.  Others  took  to  doing  what  mischief  occurred  to 
them  in  his  rooms.  One  man,  mounted  on  a  chair  with  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth  which  had  gone  out,  was  employed  in  pouring  the 
contents  of  a  champagne  bottle  with  unsteady  hand  into  the 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  Chanter  was  a  particular  man  ir 
this  sort  of  furniture,  and  his  clock  was  rather  a  speciality 
It  was  a  large  bronze  figure  of  Atlas,  supporting  the  globe  in 
the  shape  of  a  time-piece.  Unluckily  the  maker,  not  anticipat 
ing  the  sort  of  test  to  which  his  work  would  be  subjected, 
had  ingeniously  left  the  hole  for  winding  up  in  the  top  of  the 
clock,  so  that  unusual  facilities  existed  for  drowning  the  world 
carrier,  and  he  was  already  almost  at  his  last  tick.  One  or 
two  men  were  morally  aiding  and  abetting,  and  physically  sup- 
porting the  experimenter  on  clocks,  who  found  it  difficult  to 
stand  to  his  work  by  himself.  Another  knot  of  young  gentle- 
men stuck  to  the  tables,  and  so  continued  to  shout  out  scraps 
of  song,  sometimes  standing  on  their  chairs,  and  sometimes 
tumbling  off  them.  Another  set  were  employed  on  the  ami- 
able work  of  pouring  beer  and  sugar  into  three  new  pairs  of 
polished  leather  dress  boots,  with  colored  tops  to  them,  which 
they  discovered  in  the  dressing-room.  Certainly,  as  they  re- 
marked, Chanter  could  have  no  possible  use  for  so  many  dress 
boots  at  once,  and  it  was  a  pity  the  beer  should  be  wasted ;  but 
on  the  whole,  perhaps,  the  materials  were  never  meant  for 
combination,  and  had  better  have  been  kept  apart.  Others  had 
gone  away  to  break  into  the  kitchen,  headed  by  one  who  had 
just  come  into  college  and  vowed  he  would  have  some  supper ; 
and  others,  to  screw  up  an  unpopular  tutor,  or  to  break  into 
the  rooms  of  some  inoffensive  freshman.  The  remainder  mus- 
tered on  the  grass  in  the  quadrangle,  and  began  playing  leap- 
frog and  larking  one  another.  Amongst  these  last  was  our 
hero,  who  had  been  at  Blake's  wine  and  one  of  the  quieter 
supper  parties ;  and,  though  not  so  far  gone  as  most  of  his 
companions,  was  by  no  means  in  a  state  in  which  he  would 
have  cared  to  meet  the  Dean.  He  lent  his  hearty  aid  accord- 
ingly to  swell  the  noise  and  tumult,  which  was  becoming  some- 
thing out  of  the  way  even  for  St.  Ambrose's.  As  the  leap-frog 
was  flagging,  Drysdale  suddenly  appeared  carrying  some  silver 
plates  which  were  used  on  solemn  occasions  in  the  common 
room,  and  allowed  to  be  issued  on  special  application  for  gem 
tlemen  commoners'  parties.  A  rush  was  made  towards  him. 


268  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Halloo,  here's  Drysdale  with  lots  of  swag,"  shouted  one. 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  "  cried  another.  Drys- 
dale paused  a  moment  with  the  peculiarly  sapient  look  of  a 
tipsy  man  who  has  suddenly  lost  the  thread  of  his  ideas,  and 
then  suddenly  broke  out  with — 

"  Hang  it ;  I  forgot.     But  let's  play  at  quoits  with  them." 

The  proposal  was  received  with  applause,  and  the  game 
began,  but  Drysdale  soon  left  it.  He  had  evidently  some  no- 
tion in  his  head  which  would  not  suffer  him  to  turn  to  any- 
thing else  till  he  had  carried  it  out.  He  went  off  accordingly 
to  Chanter's  rooms,  while  the  quoits  went  on  in  the  front  quad- 
rangle. 

About  this  time,  however,  the  Dean  and  bursar,  and  the 
tutors  who  lived  in  college,  began  to  be  conscious  that  some- 
thing unusual  was  going  on.  They  were  quite  used  to  distant 
choruses,  and  great  noises  in  the  men's  rooms,  and  to  a  fail- 
amount  of  shouting  and  skylarking  in  the  quadrangle,  and  were 
long-suffering  men  not  given  to  interfering  ;  but  there  must  be 
an  end  to  all  endurance,  and  the  state  of  things  which  had  ar- 
rived could  no  longer  be  met  by  a  turn  in  bed  and  a  growl  at 
the  uproars  and  follies  of  undergraduates. 

Presently  some  of  the  rioters  on  the  grass  caught  sight  of  a 
figure  gliding  along  the  side  of  the  quadrangle  towards  the 
Dean's  staircase.  A  shout  arose  that  the  enemy  was  up,  but 
little  heed  was  paid  to  it  by  the  greater  number.  Then  another 
figure  passed  from  the  Dean's  staircase  to  the  porter's  lodge. 
Those  of  the  men  who  had  any  sense  left  saw  that  it  was  time 
to  quit,  and,  after  warning  the  rest,  went  off  towards  their 
rooms.  Tom  on  his  way  to  his  staircase  caught  sight  of  a 
figure  seated  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  inner  quadrangle,  and 
made  for  it,  impelled  by  natural  curiosity.  He  found  Drys- 
dale seated  on  the  ground  with  several  silver  tankards  by  his 
side,  employed  to  the  best  of  his  powers  in  digging  a  hole  with 
one  of  the  college  carving-knives. 

"  Hollo,  Drysdale  !  what  are  you  up  to  ?"  he  shouted,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Providing  for  poshterity,"  replied  Drysdale,  gravely,  with- 
out looking  up. 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  Don't  be  such  an  ass. 
The  Dean  will  be  out  in  a  minute.  Get  up  and  come  along." 

"  I  tell  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Drysdale,  somewhat  inar- 
ticulately, and  driving  his  knife  into  the  ground  again,  "  the 
dons  are  going  to  spout  the  college  plate.  So  I  am  burying 
these  articles  for  poshterity — " 

"  Hang  posterity,"  said  Tom ;  "  come  along  directly,  or  you'll 
be  caught  and  rusticated*" 


THE  SCHOOLS.  269 

**  Go  to  bed,  Brown — you're  drunk,  Brown,"  replied  Drys- 
dale,  continuing  his  work,  and  striking  the  carving-knife  into 
the  ground  so  close  to  his  own  thigh  that  it  made  Tom  shudder. 

"Here  they  are  then,"  he  cried  the  next  moment,  seizing 
Drysdale  by  the  arm,  as  a  rush  of  men  came  through  the  passage 
into  the  back  quadrangle,  shouting  and  tumbling  along,  and 
making  in  small  groups  for  the  different  staircases.  The  Dean 
and  two  of  the  tutors  followed,  and  the  porter  bearing  a  lan- 
tern. There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  ;  so  Tom,  after  one  more 
struggle  to  pull  Drysdale  up  and  hurry  him  off,  gave  it  up,  anfd 
leaving  him  to  his  fate,  ran  across  to  his  own  staircase. 

For  the  next  half-hour  the  Dean  and  his  party  patrolled  the 
college,  and  succeeded  at  last  in  restoring  order,  though  not 
without  some  undignified  and  disagreeable  passages.  The  lights 
on  the  staircases,  which  generally  burnt  all  night,  were 
of  course  put  out  as  they  approached.  On  the  first  staircase 
which  they  stormed,  the  porter's  lantern  was  knocked  out 
of  his  hand  by  an  unseen  adversary,  and  the  light  put  out 
on  the  bottom  stairs.  On  the  first  landing  the  bursar  trod 
on  a  small  terrier  belonging  to  a  fast  freshman,  and  the  dog 
naturally  thereupon  bit  the  bursar's  leg  ;  while  his  master  and 
other  enfants  perdus,  taking  advantage  of  the  diversion,  rushed 
down  the  dark  stairs,  past  the  party  of  order,  and  into  the 
quadrangle,  where  they  scattered  amidst  a  shout  of  laughter. 
While  the  porter  was  gone  for  a  light,  the  Dean  and  his  party 
rashly  ventured  on  a  second  ascent.  Here  an  unexpected 
catastrophe  awaited  them.  On  the  top  landing  lived  one 
of  the  steadiest  men  in  college,  whose  door  had  been  tried 
shortly  before.  He  had  been  roused  out  of  his  first  sleep,  and, 
vowing  vengeance  on  the  next  comers,  stood  behind  his  oak, 
holding  his  brown  George,  or  huge  earthenware  receptacle,  half 
full  of  dirty  water,  in  which  his  bed-maker  had  been  washing 
up  his  tea-things.  Hearing  stealthy  steps  and  whispering  on 
the  stairs  below,  he  suddenly  threw  open  his  oak,  discharging 
the  whole  contents  of  his  brown  George  on  the  approaching 
authorities,  with  a  shout  of,  "  Take  that  for  your  skulking." 

The  exasperated  Dean  and  tutors  rushing  on,  seized  on  their 
astonished  and  innocent  assailant,  and  after  receiving  explana- 
tions, and  the  offer  of  clean  towels,  hurried  off  again  after  the 
real  enemy.  And  now  the  porter  appeared  again  with  the  light, 
and,  continuing  their  rounds,  they  apprehended  and  disarmed 
Drysdale,  collected  the  college  plate,  marked  down  others  of 
the  rioters,  visited  Chanter's  rooms,  held  a  parley  with  the  one 
of  their  number  who  was  screwed  up  in  his  rooms,  and  discovered 
that  the  bars  had  been  wrenched  out  of  the  kitchen  window. 


£70  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

After  which  they  retired  to  sleep  on  their  indignation,  and 
quietness  settled  down  again  on  the  ancient  and  venerable 
college. 

The  next  morning  at  chapel  many  of  the  revellers  met ;  in 
fact,  there  was  a  fuller  attendance  than  usual,  for  everyone 
felt  that  something  serious  must  be  pending.  After  such  a 
night  the  dons  must  make  a  stand,  or  give  up  altogether.  The 
most  reckless  only  of  the  fast  set  were  absent.  St.  Cloud  was 
there,  dressed  even  more  precisely  than  usual,  and  looking  as 
if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  going  to  bed  at  ten,  and  had  never 
heard  of  milk  punch.  Tom  turned  out  not  much  the  woree 
himself,  but  in  his  heart  feeling  not  a  little  ashamed  of  the 
whole  business ;  of  the  party,  the  men ;  but  above  all,  of  him- 
self. He  thrust  the  shame  back,  however,  as  well  as  he  could, 
and  put  a  cool  face  on  it.  Probably  most  of  the  men  were  in 
much  the  same  state  of  mind.  Even  in  St.  Ambrose's,  reckless 
and  vicious  as  the  college  had  become,  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  the  undergraduates  would  gladly  have  seen  a  change  in  the 
direction  of  order  and  decency,  and  were  sick  of  the  wretched 
license  of  doing  right  in  their  own  eyes,  and  wrong  in  every 
one's  else. 

As  the  men  trooped  out  of  chapel,  they  formed  in  corners  of 
the  quadrangle,  except  the  reading  set,  who  went  off  quietly 
to  their  rooms.  There  was  a  pause  of  a  minute  or  two.  Neither 
principal,  dean,  tutor,  nor  fellow,  followed  as  on  ordinary  oc- 
casions. "  They're  hatching  something  in  the  outer  chapel," 
said  one. 

"  It'll  be  a  coarse  time  for  Chanter,  I  take  it,"  said  another. 

"Was  your  name  sent  to  the  buttery  for  his  supper?" 

"  No,  I  took  d — d  good  care  of  that,"  said  St.  Cloud,  who 
Iras  addressed. 

"  Drysdale  was  caught ;  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  So  I  hear,  and  nearly  frightened  the  dean  and  the  porter 
out  of  their  wits  by  staggering  after  them  with  a  carving- 
knife." 

"  He'll  be  sacked,  of  course." 

"Much  he'll  care  for  that." 

"  Here  they  come,  then ;  by  Jove,  how  black  they  look ! " 

The  authorities  now  came  out  of  the  antechapel  door,  and 
walked  slowly  across  towards  the  principal's  house  in  a  body. 
At  this  moment,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  Jack  trotted  into  the 
front  quadrangle,  dragging  after  him  the  light  steel  chain  with 
which  he  was  usually  fastened  up  in  Drysdale's  scout's  room  at 
night.  He  came  innocently  towards  one  and  another  of  the 
groups,  and  retired  from  each  much  astonished  at  the  low 


THE  SCHOOLS.  271 

growl  with  which  his  acquaintance  was  repudiated  on  all  sides. 

"  Porter,  whose  dog  is  that  ?  "  said  the  Dean,  catching  sight 
of  him. 

"  Mr.  Drysdale's  dog,  sir,  I  think,  sir,"  answered  the  porter. 

"  Probably  the  animal  who  bit  me  last  night,"  said  the 
bursar.  His  knowledge  of  dogs  was  small ;  if  Jack  had  fast- 
ened on  him  he  would  probably  have  been  in  bed  from  the 
effects. 

"  Turn  the  dog  out  of  college,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  Please,  sir,  he's  a  very  savage  dog,  sir,"  said  the  porter, 
whose  respect  for  Jack  was  unbounded. 

"  Turn  him  out  immediately,"  replied  the  Dean. 

The  wretched  porter,  arming  himself  with  a  broom  ap- 
proached Jack,  and  after  some  coaxing  managed  to  catch  hold 
of  the  end  of  his  chain,  and  began  to  lead  him  towards  the 
gates  carefully  holding  out  the  broom  towards  Jack's  nose 
with  his  other  hand,  to  protect  himself.  Jack  at  first  hauled 
away  at  his  chain,  and  then  began  circling  round  the  porter  at 
the  full  extent  of  it,  evidently  meditating  an  attack.  Notwith- 
standing the  seriousness  of  the  situation,  the  ludicrous  alarm 
of  the  porter  set  the  men  laughing. 

"  Come  along,  or  Jack  will  be  pinning  the  wretched  Copas," 
said  Jervis,  and  he  and  Tom  stepped  up  to  the  terrified  little 
man,  and,  releasing  him,  led  Jack,  who  knew  them  both  well, 
out  of  college. 

"  Were  you  at  that  supper  party,"  said  Jervis,  as  they  de- 
posited Jack  with  an  ostler,  who  was  lounging  outside  the 
gates  to  be  taken  to  Drysdale's  stables. 

"No,"  said  Tom. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  there  will  be  a  pretty  clean  sweep  afte* 
last  night's  doings." 

"But  I  was  in  the  quadrangle  when  they  came  out." 

"  Not  caught,  eh  ?  "  said  Jervis. 

"No,  luckily  I  got  to  my  own  rooms  at  once." 

"Were  any  of  the  crew  caught?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Well,  we  shall  hear  enough  of  it  before  lecture  time." 

Jervis  was  right.  There  was  a  meeting  in  the  common 
room  directly  after  breakfast.  Drysdale  anticipating  his  fate, 
took  his  name  off  before  they  sent  for  him.  Chanter  and 
three  or  four"  others  were  rusticated  for  a  year,  and  Blake  was 
ordered  to  go  down  at  once.  He  was  a  scholar,  and  what  was 
to  be  done  in  his  case  would  be  settled  at  the  meeting  at  the 
end  of  term. 

For  twenty-four  hours  it  was  supposed  that  St.  Cloud  had 


272  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

escaped  altogether,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  was  sura, 
moned  before  a  meeting  in  the  common  room.  The  tutor, 
whose  door  had  been  so  effectually  screwed  up  that  he  had 
beeH  obliged  to  get  out  of  his  window  by  a  ladder  to  attend 
morning  chapel,  proved  wholly  unable  to  appreciate  the  joke, 
and  set  himself  to  work  to  discover  the  perpetrators  of  it. 
The  door  was  fastened  with  long  gimlets,  which  were  screwed 
firmly  in,  and  when  driven  well  home  their  heads  had  been 
knocked  off.  The  tutor  collected  the  shafts  of  the  gimlets 
from  the  carpenter,  who  came  to  effect  an  entry  for  him;  and 
after  careful  examination,  discovered  the  trade  mark.  So, 
putting  them  in  his  pocket,  he  walked  off  into  the  town,  and 
soon  came  back  with  the  information  he  required,  which  re- 
sulted in  the  rustication  of  St.  Cloud,  an  event  which  was 
borne  by  the  college  with  the  greatest  equanimity. 

Shortly  afterwards  Tom  attended  in  the  schools'  quadrangle 
again,  to  be  present  ot  the  posting  of  the  class  list.  This 
time  there  were  plenty  of  anxious  faces ;  the  quadrangle  was 
full  of  them.  He  felt  almost  as  nervous  himself  as  if  he  were 
waiting  for  the  third  gun.  He  thrust  himself  forward,  and 
was  amongst  the  first  who  caught  sight  of  the  document.  One 
look  was  enough  for  him,  and  the  next  mo'ment  he  was  off  at 
full  speed  to  St.  Ambrose,  and,  rushing  headlong  into  Hardy's 
rooms,  seized  him  by  the  hand,  and  shook  it  vehemently. 

"  It's  all  right,  old  fellow,"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  could 
catch  his  breath  ;  "  it's  all  right.  Four  firsts ;  you're  one  of 
them:  well  done! " 

"And  Grey,  whore's  he  ?  is  he  all  right?" 

"  Bless  me,  I  forgot  to  look,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  only  read  the 
firsts,  and  then  come  off  as  hard  as  I  could." 

"  Then  he  is  not  a  first." 

"  No ;  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  him  ;  he  deserved  it  far  more  than  I." 

"No,  by  Jove,  old  boy!"  said  Tom,  seizing  him  again  by 
the  hand,  "  that  he  didn't ;  nor  any  man  that  ever  went  into 
the  schools." 

"  Thank  you,  Brown,"  said  Hardy,  returning  his  warm  grip. 
•*  STou  do  one  good.  Now  to  see  poor  Grey,  and  to  write  to 
my  dear  old  father  before  Hall.  Fancy  him  opening  the  let- 
ter at  breakfast  the  day  after  to-morrow !  I  only  hope  it  won't 
hurt  him." 

"  Never  fear.  I  don't  believe  in  people  dying  of  joy,  and 
anything  short  of  sudden  death  he  won't  mind  at  the  price." 

Hardy  hurried  off,  and  Tom  went  to  his  own  rooms,  and 
smoked  a  cigar  to  altey  his  excitement,  and  thought  about  his 


COMMEMORATION.  27s 

friend  and  all  they  had  felt  together  and  laughed  and  mourned 
over  in  the  short  months  of  their  friendship.  A  pleasant 
dreamy  half-hour  he  spent  thus,  till  the  hall  bell  roused  him, 
and  he  made  his  toilette  and  went  to  his  dinner. 

It  was  with  very  mixed  feelings  that  Hardy  walked  by  the 
servitors'  table  and  took  his  seat  with  the  bachelors,  an  equal 
at  last  amongst  equals.  No  man  who  is  worth  his  salt  can 
leave  a  place  where  he  has  gone  through  hard  and  searching 
discipline  and  been  tried  in  the  very  depths  of  his  heart  with- 
out regret,  however  much  he  may  have  winced  under  the  dis- 
cipline. It  is  no  light  thing  to  fold  up  and  lay  by  forever  a 
portion  of  one's  life,  even  when  it  can  be  laid  by  with  honor 
and  in  thankfulness. 

But  it  was  with  no  mixed  feelings,  but  with  a  sense  of  entire 
triumph  and  joy,  that  Tom  watched  his  friend  taking  his  new 
place,  and  the  Dons  one  after  another  coming  up  and  congrat- 
ulating him,  and  treating  him  as  the  man  who  had  done  honor 
to  them  and  his  college. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

COMMEMORATION. 

THE  end  of  the  academic  year  was  now  at  hand,  and  Oxford 
was  beginning  to  put  on  her  gayest  clothing.  The  college 
gardeners  were  in  a  state  of  unusual  activity,  and  the  lawns  and 
flower-beds,  which  form  such  exquisite  settings  to  many  of  the 
venerable  gray-gabled  buildings,  were  as  neat  and  as  bright  as 
hands  could  make  them.  Cooks,  butlers,  and  their  assistants, 
were  bestirring  themselves  in  kitchen  and  buttery,  under  the 
direction  of  bursars  jealous  of  the  fame  of  their  houses,  in  the 
preparation  of  the  abundant  and  solid  fare  with  which  Oxford 
is  wont  to  entertain  all  comers.  Everything  the  best  of  its 
kind,  no  stint  but  no  nonsense,  seems  to  be  the  wise  rule  which 
the  University  hands  down  and  lives  up  to  in  these  matters. 
However  we  may  differ  as  to  her  degeneracy  in  other  depart- 
ments, all  who  have  ever  visited  her  will  admit  that  in  this  of 
hospitality  she  is  still  a  great  national  teacher,  acknowledging 
and  preaching  by  example  the  fact,  that  eating  anu  d  kit.  / 
are  important  parts  of  man's  life,  which  are  allowed  their  d  e 
prominence,  and  not  thrust  into  a  corner,  but  are  to  be  do-  e 
soberly  and  thankfully,  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  The 
coaches  were  bringing  in  heavy  loads  of  visitors ;  carriages  of 


<J74  TOM  BROWN  A T  OXFORD. 

all  kinds  were  coming  in  from  the  neighboring  counties ;  and 
lodgings  in  the  High  Street  were  going  up  to  fabulous  prices. 

In  one  of  these  High  Street  lodgings,  on  the  evening  of  the 
Saturday  before  Commemoration,  Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin 
are  sitting.  They  have  been  at  Oxford  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  day,  having  posted  up  from  Englebourne,  but  they 
have  only  just  come  in,  for  the  younger  lady  is  still  in  her 
bonnet,  and  Miss  Winter's  lies  on  the  table.  The  windows  are 
wide  open,  and  Miss  Winter  is  sitting  at  one  of  them,  while 
her  cousin  is  busied  in  examining  the  furniture  and  decorations 
of  their  temporary  home,  now  commenting  upon  these  now, 
pouring  out  praises  of  Oxford. 

"Isn't  it  too  charming?  I  never  dreamt  that  any  town 
could  be  so  beautiful.  Don't  you  feel  wild  about  it,  Katie  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  queen  of  towns,  dear.  But  I  know  it  well,  you 
see,  so  that  I  can't  be  quite  so  enthusiastic  as  you." 

"  Oh,  those  dear  gardens  !  what  was  the  name  of  those  ones 
with  the  targets  up,  where  they  were  shooting?  Don't  you 
remember  ?  " 

"  New  College  Gardens,  on  the  old  city  walls,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  They  were  very  nice  and  sentimental.  I  should 
like  to  go  and  sit  and  read  poetry  there.  But  I  mean  the  big 
ones,  the  gorgeous,  princely  ones ;  with  wicked  old  Bishop 
Laud's  gallery  looking  into  them." 

"Oh!  St.  John's  of  course." 

*'  Yes,  St.  John's.     Why  do  you  hate  Laud  so,  Katie  ?  " 

"I  don't  hate  him,  dear.  He  was  a  Berkshire  man,  you 
know.  But  I  think  he  did  a  great  deal  of  harm  to  the 
Church." 

"  How  do  you  think  my  new  silk  looked  in  the  gardens  ? 
How  lucky  I  broiight  it,  wasn't  it?  I  shouldn't  have  liked  to 
have  been  in  nothing  but  muslins.  They  don't  suit  here  ;  yon 
want  something  richer  amongst  the  old  buildings,  and  on  the 
beautiful  velvety  turf  of  the  gardens.  How  do  you  think  I 
looked  ?  " 

"  You  looked  like  a  queen,  dear ;  or  a  lady  in  waiting,  at 
least." 

"  Yes,  a  lady  in  waiting  on  Henrietta  Maria.  Didn't  you 
hear  one  of  the  gentlemen  say  that  she  was  lodged  in  St. 
John's  when  Charles  marched  to  relieve  Gloucester?  Ah! 
can't  you  fancy  her  sweeping  about  the  gardens,  with  her  ladies 
following  her,  and  Bishop  Laud  walking  just  a  little  behind 
her,  and  talking  in  a  low  voice  about — let  me  see — something 
very  important ! " 

"  O  Mary !  where  has  your  history  gone  ?  He  was  Arch- 
bishop, and  was  safely  locked  up  in  the  Tower." 


COMMEMORATION.  275 

"  Well,  perhaps  he  was ;  then  he  couldn't  be  with  her,  of 
course.  How  stupid  of  you  to  remember,  Katie.  Why  can't 
you  make  up  your  mind  to  enjoy  yourself  when  you  come  out 
for  a  holiday  ?  " 

"I  shouldn't  enjoy  myself  any  the  more  for  forgetting  dates," 
said  Katie,  laughing. 

"Oh,  you  would  though  !  only  try.  But,  let  me  see,  it  can't 
be  Laud.  Then  it  shall  be  that  cruel  drinking  old  man,  with 
the  wooden  leg  made  of  gold,  who  was  governor  of  Oxford 
when  the  king  was  away.  He  must  be  hobbling  along  after 
the  queen  in  a  buff  coat  and  breastplate,  holding  his  hat,  with 
a  long  drooping  white  feather,  in  his  hand." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  like  it  at  all,  Mary ;  it  would  be  too 
serious  for  you.  The  poor  queen  would  be  too  anxious  to 
gossip,  and  you  ladies  in  waiting  would  be  obliged  to  walk  after 
her  without  saying  a  word." 

"Yes,  that  would  be  stupid.  But  then  she  would  have  to  go 
away  with  the  old  governor  to  write  dispatches ;  and  some  of 
the  young  officers  with  long  hair  and  beautiful  lace  sleeves,  and 
Jarge  boots,  whom  the  king  had  left  behind,  wounded,  might 
come  and  walk  perhaps,  or  sit  in  the  sun  in  the  quiet  gardens." 

Mary  looked  over  her  shoulder  with  the  merriest  twinkle  in 
her  eye,  to  see  how  her  steady  cousin  would  take  this  last  pic- 
ture. "  The  college  authorities  would  never  allow  that,"  she 
said,  quietly,  still  looking  out  of  the  window  ;  "  if  you  wanted 
beaus,  you  must  have  them  in  black  gowns." 

"  They  would  have  been  jealous  of  the  soldiers,  you  think  ? 
Well,  I  don't  mind  ;  the  black  gowns  are  very  pleasant,  only  a 
little  stiff.  But  how  do  you  think  my  bonnet  looked  ?  " 

"  Charmingly.  But  when  are  you  going  to  have  done  looking 
in  the  glass?  You  don't  care  for  the  buildings,  I  believe,  a 
bit.  Come  and  look  at  St.  Mary's ;  there  is  such  a  lovely  light 
on  the  steeple ! " 

"  I'll  come  directly,  but  I  must  get  these  flowers  right.  I'm 
sure  there  are  too  many  in  this  trimming." 

Mary  was  trying  her  new  bonnet  on  over  and  over  again 
before  the  mantel-glass,  and  pulling  out  and  changing  the  places 
of  the  blush-rose  buds  with  which  it  was  trimmed.  Just  then 
a  noise  of  wheels,  accompanied  by  a  merry  tune  on  a  cornopean, 
came  in  from  the  street. 

"  What's  that,  Katie  ?  "  she  cried,  stopping  her  work  for  a 
moment. 

"  A  coach  coming  up  from  Magdalen  bridge.  I  think  it  is  a 
cricketing  party  coming  home." 

"  Oh,  let  me  see !  "  and  she  tripped  across  to  the  window, 


276  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

bonnet  in  hand,  and  stood  beside  her  cousin.  And  then,  sure 
enough,  a  coach  covered  with  cricketers  returning  from  a 
match,  drove  past  the  window.  The  young  ladies  looked  out 
at  lirst  with  great  curiosity ;  but  suddenly  finding  themselves 
the  mark  for  a  whole  coach-load  of  male  eyes,  shrank  back  a 
little  before  the  cricketers  had  passed  on  towards  the  "  Mitre." 
As  the  coach  passed  out  of  sight,  Mary  gave  a  pretty  toss  of 
her  head,  and  said, — 

"  Well,  they  don't  want  for  assurance,  at  any  rate.  I  think 
they  needn't  have  stared  so." 

"  It  was  our  fault,"  said  Katie  ;  "  we  shouldn't  have  been  at 
the  window.  Besides,  you  know  you  are  to  be  a  lady  in  wait- 
ing on  Henrietta  Maria  up  here,  and  of  course  you  must  get 
used  to  being  stared  at." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  but  that  was  to  be  by  young  gentlemen  wounded 
in  the  wars,  in  lace  ruffles,  as  one  sees  them  in  pictures.  That's 
a  very  different  thing  from  young  gentlemen  in  flannel  trousers 
and  straw  hats,  driving  up  the  High  Street  on  coaches.  I  de- 
clare one  of  them  had  the  impudence  to  bow,  as  if  he  knew 
you." 

"  So  he  does.    That  was  my  cousin." 

"  Your  cousin !  Ah,  I  remember !  Then  he  must  be  my 
cousin  too." 

"  No,  not  at  all.     He  is  no  relation  of  yours." 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't  break  my  heart.     But  he  is  a  good  partner  ?  " 

"  I  should  say,  yes.  But  I  hardly  know.  We  used  to  be  a 
great  deal  together  as  children,  but  papa  has  been  such  an  in- 
valid lately." 

"  Ah !  I  wonder  how  uncle  is  getting  on  at  the  Vice- 
Chancellor's.  Look,  it  is  past  eight  by  St.  Mary's.  When 
were  we  to  go  ?  " 

"  We  were  asked  for  nine." 

"Then  we  must  go  and  dress.  Will  it  be  very  slow  and 
stiff,  Katie  ?  I  wish  we  were  going  to  something  not  quite  so 
grand." 

"  You'll  find  it  very  pleasant,  I  dare  say." 

"  There  won't  be  any  dancing,  though,  I  know ;  will  there  P  " 

"  No  ;  I  should  think  certainly  not/' 

"  Dear  me  1  I  hope  there  will  be  some  young  men  there, — I 
shall  be  so  shy,  I  know,  if  there  are  nothing  but  wise  people. 
How  do  you  talk  to  a  Regius  Professor,  Katie  ?  It  must  be 
awful."  ' 

"He  will  probably  be  at  least  as  uncomfortable  as  you, 
dear,"  said  Miss  Winter,  laughing,  and  rising  from  the  window ; 
"  let  us  go  and  dress.'' 


COMMEMORATION.  277 

"  Shall  I  wear  ray  best  gown  ? — What  shall  I  put  in  my 
hair?" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  maid-servant  in. 
troduced  Mr.  Brown. 

It  was  the  St.  Ambrose  drag  which  had  passed  along  shortly 
before,  bearing  the  eleven  home  from  a  triumphant  match. 
As  they  came  over  Magdalen  bridge  Drysdale,  who  had  re- 
turned to  Oxford  as  a  private  gentleman  after  his  late  catastro- 
phe, which  he  had  ma  aged  to  keep  a  secret  from  his  guardian, 
and  was  occupying  his  nsual  place  on  the  box,  called  out, — 

"  Now,  boys,  keep  your  eyes  open,  there  must  be  plenty  of 
lionesses  about ;  "  and  thus  warned,  the  whole  load,  including 
the  cornopean  player,  were  on  the  lookout  for  lady  visitors, 
profanely  called  lionesses,  all  the  way  up  the  street.  They 
had  been  gratified  by  the  sight  of  several  walking  in  the  High 
Street  or  looking  out  of  the  windows,  before  they  caught  sight 
of  Miss  Winter  and  her  cousin.  The  appearance  of  these 
young  ladies  created  a  sensation. 

"I  say,  look!  up  there  in  the  first  floor." 

"  By  George,  they're  something  like." 

"  The  sitter  for  choice." 

"  No,  no,  the  standing-up  one ;  she  looks  so  saucy." 

"  Hollo,  Brown !  do  you  know  them  ?  " 

"  One  of  them  is  my  cousin,"  said  Tom,  who  had  just  been 
guilty  of  the  salutation  which,  as  we  saw,  excited  the  indigna- 
tion  of  the  younger  lady. 

"What  luck! — You'll  ask  me  to  meet  them — when  shall  it 
be  ?  To-morrow  at  breakfast,  I  vote." 

"  I  say,  you'll  introduce  me  before  the  ball  on  Monday  ? 
promise  now,"  said  another. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  shall  see  anything  of  them,"  said 
Tom;  "I  shall  just  leave  a  pasteboard,  but  I'm  not  in  the 
humor  to  be  dancing  about  lionizing."  ;"'{' •' 

A  storm  of  indignation  arose  at  this  speech ;  the  notion  that 
any  of  the  fraternity  who  had  any  hold  on  lionesses,  particu- 
larly if  they  were  pretty,  should  not  use  it  to  the  utmost  for 
the  benefit  of  the  rest,  and  the  glory  and  honor  of  the  college, 
was  revolting  to  the  undergraduate  mind.  So  the  whole  body 
escorted  Tom  to  the  door  of  the  lodgings,  impressing  upon 
him  the  necessity  of  engaging  both  his  lionesses  for  every  hour 
of  every  day  in  St.  Ambrose's,  and  left  him  not  till  they  had 
heard  him  ask  for  the  young  ladies,  and  seen  him  fairly  on  his 
way  up  stairs.  They  need  not  have  taken  so  much  trouble, 
for  in  his  secret  soul  he  was  no  little  pleased  at  the  appearance 
of  creditable  ladies,  more  or  less  belonging  to  him,  and  would 


278  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

have  found  his  way  to  see  them  quickly  and  surely  enough 
without  any  urging.  Moreover,  he  had  been  really  fond  of  his 
cousin,  years  before,  when  they  had  been  boy  and  girl 
together. 

So  they  greeted  one  another  very  cordially,  and  looked  one 
another  over  as  they  shook  hands,  to  see  what  changes  time 
had  made.  He  makes  his  changes  rapidly  enough  at  that  age, 
and  mostly  for  the  better,  as  the  two  cousins  thought.  It  was 
nearly  three  years  since  they  had  met,  and  then  he  was  a  fifth- 
form  boy  and  she  a  girl  in  the  schoolroom.  They  were  both 
conscious  of  a  strange  pleasure  in  meeting  again,  mixed  with  a 
feeling  of  shyness,  and  wonder,  whether  they  should  be  able  to 
step  back  into  their  old  relations. 

Mary  looked  on  demurely,  really  watching  them,  but  osten- 
sibly engaged  on  the  rosebud  trimming.  Presently  Miss  Win- 
ter turned  to  her  and  said,  "  I  don't  think  you  two  ever  met 
before ;  I  must  introduce  you,  I  suppose ; — my  cousin  Tom, 
my  cousin  Mary." 

"  Then  we  must  be  cousins  too,"  said  Tom,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

"  No,  Katie  says  not,"  she  answered. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  believe  her,  then,"  said  Tom  ;  "  but  what 
are  you  going  to  do  now,  to-night?  Why  didn't  you  write 
and  tell  me  you  were  coming  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  so  shut  up  lately,  owing  to  papa's  bad 
health,  that  I  really  had  almost  forgotten  you  were  at  Ox- 
ford." 

"  By  the  by,"  said  Tom,  "  where  is  uncle  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he  is  dining  at  the  Vice  Chancellor's,  who  is  an  old 
College  friend  of  his.  We  have  only  been  up  here  three  or 
four  hours,  and  it  has  done  him  so  much  good.  I  am  so  glad 
we  spirited  him  up  to  coming." 

"  You  haven't  made  any  engagements  yet,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Indeed  we  have ;  I  can't  tell  how  many.  We  came  in 
time  for  luncheon  in  Balliol.  Mary  and  I  made  it  our  dinner, 
and  we  have  been  seeing  sights  ever  since,  and  have  been 
asked  to  go  to,  I  don't  know  how  many  luncheons,  and  break- 
fasts." 

"  What,  with  a  lot  of  dons,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Tom,  spitefully ; 
"you  won't  enjoy  Oxford  then  ;  they'll  bore  you  to  death." 

"There  now,  Katie;  that  is  just  what  I  was  afraid  of," 
joined  in  Mary ;  "  you  remember  we  didn't  hear  a  word  about 
balls  all  the  afternoon." 

"  You  haven't  got  your  tickets  for  the  balls,  then  ? "  said 
Tom,  brightening  up. 


COMMEMORATION.  279 

"No ;  how  shall  we  get  them ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  can  manage  that,  I've  no  doubt." 
*  Stop ;  how  are  we  to  go  ?  Papa  will  never  take  us." 

"  You  needn't  think  about  that ;  anybody  will  chaperon 
you.  Nobody  cares  about  that  sort  of  thing  at  commemora- 
tion." 

"  Indeed  I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  I  have  talked  to 
papa." 

"  Then  all  the  tickets  will  be  gone,"  said  Tom.  "  You  must 
go.  Why  shouldn't  I  chaperon  you?  I  know  several  men 
whose  sisters  are  going  with  them." 

"No,  that  will  scarcely  do,  I'm  afraid.  But  really,  Mary, 
we  must  go  and  dress." 

"  Where  are  you  going  then  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  To  an  evening  party  at  the  Vice-Chancellor's ;  we  are 
asked  for  nine  o'clock,  and  the  half-hour  has  struck." 

"Hang  the  dons;  how  unlucky  that  I  didn't  know  before! 
Have  you  any  flowers,  by  the  way." 

«  Not  one." 

"Then  I  will  try  to  get  you  some  by  the  time  you  are  ready. 
May  I  ? 

"Oh!  yes,  pray  do,"  said  Mary.  "That's  capital,  Katie, 
isn't  it  ?  Now  I  shall  have  something  to  put  in  my  hair ;  I 
couldn't  think  what  I  was  to  wear." 

Tom  took  a  look  at  the  hair  in  question,  and  then  left  them 
and  hastened  out  to  scour  the  town  for  flowers,  as  if  his  life 
depended  on  success.  In  the  morning,  he  would  probably  have 
resented  as  insulting,  or  laughed  at  as  wildly  improbable,  the 
suggestion  that  he  would  be  so  employed  before  night. 

A  double  chair  was  thrown  up  opposite  the  door  when  he 
came  back,  and  the  ladies  were  coming  down  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

"  Oh,  look,  Katie !  What  lovely  flowers !  How  very  kind  of 
you." 

Tom  surrendered  as  much  of  his  burden  as  that  young  lady's 
little  round  white  hands  could  clasp,  to  her,  and  deposited  the 
rest  on  the  table. 

"  Now,  Katie,  which  shall  I  wear — this  beautiful  white  rose 
all  by  itself,  or  a  wreath  of  these  pansies  ?  Here,  I  have  a 
wire :  I  can  make  them  up  in  a  minute."  She  turned  to  the 
glass,  and  held  the  rich  cream-white  against  her  hair,  and  then 
turning  on  Tom,  added, "  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  thought  fern  would  suit  your  hair  better  than  anything 
else,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  so  I  got  these  leaves,"  and  he  picked 
out  two  slender  fern  leaves. 


280  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  How  very  kind  of  you  !  Let  me  see,  how  do  you  mean  ? 
Ah !  I  see ;  it  will  be  charming ; "  and  so  saying,  she  held  the 
leaves  each  in  one  hand  to  the  sides  of  her  head,  and  then 
floated  about  the  room  for  needle  and  thread,  and  with  a  few 
nimble  stitches  fastened  together  the  simple  green  crown, 
which  her  cousin  put  on  for  her,  making  the  points  meet  above 
her  forehead.  Mary  was  wild  with  delight  at  the  effect,  and 
full  of  thanks  to  Tom  as  he  helped  them  hastily  to  tie  up 
bouquets,  and  then,  amidst  much  laughing,  they  squeezed  into 
the  wheel  chair  together,  (as  the  fashions  of  that  day  allowed 
two  young  ladies  to  do),  and  went  off  to  their  party,  leaving  a 
last  injunction  on  him  to  go  up  and  put  the  rest  of  the  flowers 
in  water,  and  to  call  directly  after  breakfast  the  next  day.  He 
obeyed  his  orders,  and  pensively  arranged  the  rest  of  the  flowers 
in  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  a  soup  plate, 
which  he  got  and  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  then 
spent  some  minutes  examining  a  pair  of  gloves  and  other  small 
articles  of  women's  gear  which  lay  scattered  about  the  room. 
The  gloves  particularly  attracted  him,  and  he  flattened  them 
out  and  laid  them  on  his  own  large  brown  hand,  and  smiled  at 
the  contrast,  and  took  other  unjustifiable  liberties  with  them; 
after  which  he  returned  to  college  and  endured  much  banter  as 
to  the  time  his  call  had  lasted,  and  promised  to  engage  his 
cousins,  as  he  called  them,  to  grace  some  festivities  in  St.  Am- 
brose's at  their  first  spare  moment. 

The  next  day,  being  Show  Sunday,  was  spent  by  the  young 
ladies  in  a  ferment  of  spiritual  and  other  dissipation.  They  at- 
tended morning  service  at  eight  at  the  cathedral ;  breakfasted 
at  a  Merton  fellow's,  from  whence  they  adjourned  to  Univer- 
sity sermon.  Here,  Mary,  after  two  or  three  utterly  ineffect- 
ual attempts  to  understand  what  the  preacher  was  meaning, 
soon  relapsed  into  an  examination  of  the  bonnets  present,  and 
the  doctors  and  proctors  on  the  floor,  and  the  undergraduates 
in  the  gallery.  On  the  whole,  she  was,  perhaps,  better  em- 
ployed than  her  cousin,  who  knew  enough  of  religious  party 
strife  to  follow  the  preacher,  and  was  made  very  uncomfortable 
by  his  discourse,  which  consisted  of  an  attack  upon  the  recent 
publications  of  the  moat  eminent  and  best  men  in  the  Univer- 
sity. Poor  Miss  Winter  came  away  with  a  vague  impression 
of  the  wickedness  of  all  persons  who  dare  to  travel  out  of 
beaten  tracks,  and  that  the  most  unsafe  state  of  mind  in  the 
world  is  that  which  inquires  and  aspires,  and  cannot  be  satis- 
fied with  the  regulation  draught  of  spiritual  doctors  in  high 
places.  Being  naturally  of  a  reverent  turn  of  mind,  she  tried 
to  think  that  the  discourse  had  done  her  good.  At  the  same 


COMMEMORATION.  281 

time  she  was  somewhat  troubled  by  the  thought  that  somehow 
the  best  men  in  all  times  of  which  she  had  read  seemed  to  her 
to  be  just  those  whom  the  preacher  was  in  fact  denouncing,  al- 
though in  words  he  had  praised  them  as  the  great  lights  of  the 
Church.  The  words  which  she  had  heard  in  one  of  the  lessons 
kept  running  in  her  head,  "  Truly  ye  bear  witness  that  ye  do 
nllow  the  deeds  of  your  fathers,  for  they  indeed  killed  them, 
but  ye  build  their  sepulchres."  But  she  had  little  leisure  to 
think  on  the  subject,  and,  as  her  father  praised  the  sermon  ag 
a  noble  protest  against  the  fearful  tendencies  of  the  day  to  Po- 
pery and  Pantheism,  smothered  the  questionings  of  her  own 
heart  as  well  as  she  could,  and  went  off  to  luncheon  in  a  com- 
mon room ;  after  which  her  father  retired  to  their  lodgings, 
and  she  and  her  cousin  were  escorted  to  afternoon  service  at 
Magdalen,  in  achieving  which  last  feat  they  had  to  encounter 
a  crush  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  at  the  pit  entrance  between 
the  opera  on  a  Jenny  Lind  night.  But  what  will  not  a  deli- 
cately natured  British  lady  go  through  when  her  mind  is  bent 
either  on  pleasure  or  duty  ? 

Poor  Tom's  feelings  throughout  the  day  may  be  more  easily 
conceived  than  described.  He  had  called  according  to  order, 
and  waited  at  their  lodgings  after  breakfast.  Of  course  they 
did  not  arrive.  He  had  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of  them  in 
St.  Mary's,  but  had  not  been  able  to  approach.  He  had  called 
again  in  the  afternoon  unsuccessfully,  so  far  as  seeing  them 
was  concerned ;  but  he  had  found  his  uncle  at  home,  lying  up- 
on the  sofa.  At  first  he  was  much  dismayed  by  this  rencontre, 
but  recovering  his  presence  of  mind  he  proceeded,  I  regret  to 
say,  to  take  the  length  of  the  old  gentleman's  foot,  by  entering 
into  a  minute  and  sympathizing  inquiry  into  the  state  of  his 
health.  Tom  had  no  faith  whatever  in  his  uncle's  ill  health, 
and  believed, — as  many  persons  of  robust  constitution  are  too 
apt  to  do  when  brought  face  to  face  with  nervous  patients, — 
that  he  might  shake  off  the  whole  of  his  maladies  at  any  time 
by  a  resolute  effort,  so  that  his  sympathy  was  all  sham,  though 
perhaps,  one  may  pardon  it,  considering  the  end  in  view,  which 
was  that  of  persuading  the  old  gentleman  to  entrust  the  young 
ladies  to  his  nephew's  care  for  that  evening  in  the  long  walk : 
and  generally  to  look  upon  his  nephew,  Thomas  Brown,  as  his 
natural  prop  and  supporter  in  the  university,  whose  one  object 
in  life  just  now  would  be  to  take  trouble  off  his  hands,  and 
who  was  of  that  rare  and  precocious  steadiness  of  character 
that  he  might  be  as  safely  trusted  as  a  Spanish  duenna.  To  a 
very  considerable  extent  the  victim  fell  into  the  toils.  He  had 
many  old  friends  at  the  colleges,  and  was  very  fond  of  good 


282  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

dinners,  and  long  sittings  afterwards.  This  very  evening  he 
was  going  to  dine  at  St.  John's,  and  had  been  much  troubled 
at  the  idea  of  having  to  leave  the  unrivalled  old  port  of  that 
learned  house  to  escort  his  daughter  and  niece  to  the  long  walk. 
Still  he  was  too  easy  and  good-natured  not  to  wish  that  they 
might  get  there,  and  did  not  like  the  notion  of  their  going 
with  perfect  strangers.  Here  was  a  compromise.  His  nephew 
was  young,  but  still  he  was  a  near  relation,  and  in  fact  it  gave 
the  poor  old  man  a  plausible  excuse  for  not  exerting  himself  as 
he  felt  he  ought  to  do,  which  was  all  he  ever  required  for  shift- 
ing his  responsibilities  and  duties  upon  other  shoulders. 

So  Tom  waited  quietly  till  the  young  ladies  caine  home, 
which  they  did  just  before  hall-time.  Mr.  Winter  was  getting 
impatient.  As  soon  as  they  arrived  he  started  for  St.  John's, 
after  advising  them  to  remain  at  home  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  as  they  looked  quite  tired  and  knocked  up ;  but  if 
they  were  resolved  to  go  to  the  long  walk,  his  nephew  would 
escort  them.. 

"  How  can  Uncle  Robert  say  we  look  so  tired  ?  "  said  Mary, 
consulting  the  glass  on  the  subject ;  "  I  feel  quite  fresh.  Of 
course,  Katie,  you  mean  to  go  to  the  long  walk  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  will  go,",  said  Tom ;  "  I  think  you  owe  me 
some  amends.  I  came  x  here  according  to  order  this  morning, 
and  you  were  not  in,  and  I  have  been  trying  to  catch  you  ever 
since."' 

"  We  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Miss  Winter ;  "  Indeed  we  have 
not  had  a  minute  to  ourselves  all  day.  I  was  very  sorry  to 
think  that  we  should  have  brought  you  here  for  nothing  this 
morning." 

" But  about  the  long  walk,  Katie?  " 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  we  have  done  enough  for  to-day  ? 
I  should  like  to  have  tea  and  sit  quietly  at  home,  as  papa 
suggested." 

"Do  you  feel  very  tired,  dear?"  said  Mary,  seating  herself 
by  her  cousin  on  the  sofa,  and  taking  her  hand. 

"  No,  dear ;  I  only  want  a  little  quiet  and  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Then  let  us  stay  here  quietly  till  it  is  time  to  start.  When 
ought  we  to  get  to  the  long  walk  ?  " 

"About  half-past  seven,"  said  Tom;  "you  shouldn't  be 
much  later  than  that." 

"  There  you  see,  Katie,  we  shall  hare  two  hours'  perfect 
rest.  You  shall  lie  upon  the  sofa  and  I  will  read  to  you,  and 
then  we  shall  go  on  all  fresh  again." 

Miss  Winter  smiled  and  said,  "  Very  well."  She  saw  that 
her  cousin  was  bent  on  going,  and  she  could  deny  her  nothing. 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHURCH  MEADOWS.     288 

"  May  I  send  you  anything  from  college  ?  "  said  Tom  ;  "  you 
ought  to  have  something  more  than  tea,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh  1  no,  thank  you.     "We  dined  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

*'  Then  I  may  call  for  you  about  seven  o'clock,"  said  Tom, 
who  had  come  unwillingly  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  better 
leave  them  for  the  present. 

"Yes,  and  mind  you  come  in  good  time;  we  mean  to  see 
the  whole  sight,  remember.  We  are  country  cousins." 

"You  must  let  me  call  you  cousin  then,  just  for  the  look  of 
the  thing." 

"Certainly,  just  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  we  will  be  cousins 
till  further  notice." 

"  Well,  you  and  Tom  seem  to  get  on  together,  Mary,"  said 
Miss  Winter,  as  they  heard  the  front  door  close.  "  I'm  learn- 
ing a  lesson  from  you,  though  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  be 
able  to  put  it  in  practice.  What  a  blessing  it  must  be  not  to 
be  shy!" 

"  Are  you  shy,  then  ?  "  said  Mary,  looking  at  her  cousin  with 
a  playful  loving  smile. 

"Yes,  dreadfully.  It  is  positive  pain  to  me  to  walk  into  a 
room  where  there  are  people  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  I  feel  that  too.  I'm  sure  now  you  were  much  less  em- 
barrassed than  I  last  night  at  the  Vice-Chancellor's.  I  quite 
envied  you,  you  seemed  so  much  at  your  ease." 

"Diet  I?  I  would  have  given  anything  to  be  back  here 
quietly.  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing  with  you.  You  have  no 
real  shyness,  or  you  would  never  have  got  on  so  fast  with  my 
cousin." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  feel  at  all  shy  with  him,"  said  Mary,  laughing. 
"  How  lucky  it  is  that  he  found  us  out  so  soon  !  I  like  him  so 
much.  There  is  a  sort  of  way  about  him  as  if  he  couldn't  help 
himself.  I  am  sure  one  could  turn  him  round  one's  finger. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  But  he  always  was  soft-hearted, 
poor  boy !  But  he  isn't  a  boy  any  longer.  You  must  take 
care,  Mary.  Shall  we  ring  for  tea  ?  " 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  LONG  WALK  IX  CHKISTCHUKCH  MEADOWS. 

Do  well  unto  thyself  and  men  will  speak  good  of  thee,  is  a 
maxim  as  old  as  King  David's  time,  and  just  as  true  now  as  it 
was  then.  Hardy  had  found  it  so  since  the  publication  of  the 
class  list.  Within  a  few  days  of  that  event,  it  was  known  that 
his  was  a  very  good  first.  His  college  tutor  had  made  his  own 


284  TOM  BROWS  AT  OXFORD. 

inquiries,  and  repeated  on  several  occasions  in  a  confidential 
way  the  statement  that,  "  with  the  exception  of  a  want  of  pol- 
ish in  his  Latin  and  Greek  verses,  whicli  we  seldom  get,  except 
in  the  most  finished  public  schoolmen, — Etonians  in  particular, 
— there  has  been  no  better  examination  in  the  schools  for  sev- 
eral years."  The  worthy  tutor  went  on  to  take  glory  to  the 
college,  and  in  a  lower  degree  to  himself.  He  called  attention, 
in  more  than  one  common  room,  to  the  fact  that  Hardy  had 
never  had  any  private  tuition,  but  had  attained  his  intellectual 
development  solely  in  the  curriculum  provided  by  St.  Am- 
brose's College  for  the  training  of  the  youth  intrusted  to  her. 
"  He  himself,  indeed,"  he  would  add,  "  had  always  taken  much 
interest  in  Hardy,  and  had,  perhaps,  done  more  for  him  than 
would  be  possible  in  every  case,  but  only  with  direct  reference 
to,  and  in  supplement  of,  the  college  course." 

The  principal  had  taken  marked  and  somewhat  pom- 
pous notice  of  him,  and  had  graciously  intimated  his  wish, 
or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  his  will  (for  he  would  have 
been  much  astonished  to  be  told  that  a  wish  of  hig  could 
count  for  less  than  a  royal  mandate  to  any  man  who  had  been 
one  of  his  servitors),  that  Hardy  should  stand  for  a  fellowship, 
which  had  lately  fallen  vacant.  A  few  weeks  before,  this  ex- 
cessive affability  and  condecension  of  the  great  man  would 
have  wounded  Hardy;  but,  somehow,  the  sudden  rush  of  sun- 
shine and  prosperity,  though  it  had  not  thrown  him  off  his 
balance,  or  changed  his  estimate  of  men  and  things,  had  pulled 
a  sort  of  comfortable  sheath  over  his  sensitiveness,  and  given 
him  a  second  skin,  as  it  were,  from  which  the  principal's  shafts 
bounded  off  innocuous,  instead  of  piercing  and  rankling.  At 
first,  the  idea  of  standing  for  a  fellowship  at  St.  Ambrose's 
was  not  pleasant  to  him.  He  felt  inclined  to  open  up  entirely 
new  ground  for  himself,  and  stand  at  some  other  college,  where 
he  had  neither  acquaintance  nor  association.  But  on  second 
thoughts,  he  resolved  to  stick  to  his  old  college,  moved  there- 
to partly  by  the  lamentations  of  Tom,  when  he  heard  of  his 
friend's  meditated  emigration,  but  chiefly  by  the  unwillingness 
to  quit  a  hard  post  for  an  easier  one,  which  besets  natures  like 
his  to  their  own  discomfort,  but,  may  one  hope,  to  the  signal 
benefit  of  the  world  at  large.  Such  men  may  see  clearly 
enough  all  the  advantages  of  a  move  of  this  kind — may  quite 
appreciate  the  ease  which  it  would  bring  them — may  be  im- 
patient with  themselves  for  not  making  it  at  once — but  when 
it  comes  to  »,he  actual  leaving  the  old  post,  even  though  it  may 
be  a  march  out  with  all  the  honors  of  war,  drums  beating  and 
colors  flying,  as  it  would  have  been  in  Hardy's  case,  somehow 


THE  LONO_WALK  IN  CHR1STCHURCH  MEADOWS.    285 

or  another,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  they  throw  up  the  chance  at 
the,Jast  moment,  if  not  earlier;  pickup  their  old  arms, — growl- 
ing perhaps  at  the  price  they  are  paying  to  keep  their  own 
own  self-respect, — and  shoulder  back  into  the  press  to  face 
their  old  work,  muttering,  "We  are  asses;  we  don't  know 
what's  good  for  us  ;  but  we  must  see  this  job  through  some- 
how, come  what  may." 

So  Hardy  stayed  on  at  St.  Ambrose,  waiting  for  the  fellow- 
ship examination,  and  certainly,  I  am  free  to  confess,  not  a 
little  enjoying  the  changes  in  his  position  and  affairs. 

He  had  given  up  his  low,  dark,  back  rooms  to  the  new  servi- 
tor, his  successor,  to  whom  he  had  presented  all  the  rickety 
furniture,  except  his  two  Windsor  chairs  and  Oxford  reading 
table.  The  intrinsic  value  of  the  gift  was  not  great  certainly, 
but  was  of  importance  to  the  poor  raw  boy,  who  was  taking 
his  place ;  and  it  was  made  with  the  delicacy  of  one  who  knew 
the  situation.  Hardy's  good  offices  did  not  stop  here.  Hav- 
ing tried  the  bed  himself  for  upwards  of  three  long  years,  he 
knew  all  the  hard  places,  and  was  resolved  while  he  stayed  up 
that  they  should  never  chafe  another  occupant  as  they  had  him. 
So  he  set  himself  to  provide  stuffing,  and  took  the  lad  about 
with  him,  and  cast  a  skirt  of  his  newly  acquired  mantle  of  re- 
spectability over  him,  and  put  him  in  the  way  of  making  him- 
self as  comfortable  as  circumstances  would  allow ;  never  disguis- 
ing from  him  all  the  while  that  the  bed  was  not  to  be  a  bed  of 
roses.  In  which  pursuit,  though  not  yet  a  fellow,  perhaps  he 
was  qualifying  himself  better  for  a  fellowship  than  he  could 
have  done  by  any  amount  of  cramming  for  polish  in  his  versifi- 
cation. Not  that  the  electors  of  St.  Ambrose  would  be  likely 
to  hear  of  or  appreciate  this  kind  of  training.  Polished  versi- 
fication would  no  doubt  have  told  more  in  that  quarter.  But  we 
•\vlio  are  behind  the  scenes  may  disagree  with  them,  and  hold 
that  he  who  is  thus  acting  out,  and  learning  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "  fellowship,"  is  the  man  for  our  votes. 

So  Hardy  had  left  his  rooms  and  gone  out  of  college,  into 
lodgings  near  at  hand.  The  sword,  epaulettes,  and  picture  of 
his  father's  old  ship — his  tutelary  divinities,  as  Tom  called 
them — occupied  their  accustomed  place  in  his  new  rooms, 
except  that  there  was  a  looking-glass  over  the  mantelpiece 
here,  by  the  side  of  which  the  sword  hung,  instead  of  in  the 
centre,  as  it  had  done  while  he  had  no  such  luxury.  His 
Windsor  chairs  occupied  each  side  of  the  pleasant  window  of 
his  sitting-room,  and  already  the  taste  for  luxuries,  with  which 
he  had  BO  often  accused  himself  to  Tom,  began  to  peep  out  in 
the  shape  of  one  or  two  fine  engravings.  Altogether  Fortune 


286  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

was  smiling  on  Hardy,  and  he  was  making  the  most  of  h«r, 
like  a  wise  man,  having  brought  her  round  by  proving  that  h« 
could  get  on  without  her,  and  was  not  going  out  of  his  way  to 
gain  her  smiles.  Several  men  came  at  once,  even  before  he  had 
taken  his  B.  A.  degree,  to  read  with  him,  and  others  applied  to 
know  whether  he  would  take  a  reading  party  in  the  long  vaca- 
tion. In  short,  all  things  went  well  with  Hardy,  and  the 
Oxford  world  recognized  the  fact,  and  tradesmen  and  college 
servants  became  obsequious,  and  began  to  bow  before  him,  and 
recognize  him  as  one  of  their  lords  and  masters. 

It  was  to  Hardy's  lodgings  that  Tom  repaired  straightway, 
when  he  left  his  cousin  by  blood,  and  cousin  by  courtesy,  at 
the  end  of  the  last  chapter.  For,  running  over  in  his  mind  all 
his  acquaintance,  ho  at  once  fixed  upon  Hardy  as  the  man  to 
accompany  him  in  escorting  the  ladies  to  the  Long  Walk. 
Besides  being  his  own  most  intimate  friend,  Hardy  was  the 
man  whom  he  would  prefer  to  all  others  to  introduce  to  ladies 
now.  "  A  month  ago  it  might  have  been  different,"  Tom 
thought ;  "  he  was  such  an  old  guy  in  his  dress.  But  he  has 
smartened  up,  and  wears  as  good  a  coat  as  I  do,  and  looks  well 
enough  for  anybody,  though  he  never  will  be  much  of  a  dresser. 
Then  he  will  be  in  a  bachelor's  gown  too,  which  will  look 
respectable." 

"  Here  you  are  ;  that's  all  right ;  I'm  so  glad  you're  in,"  he 
said  as  he  entered  the  room.  "  Now  I  want  you  to  come  to 
the  Long  Walk  with  me  to-night." 

"  Very  well ;  will  you  call  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  mind  you  come  in  your  best  get-up,  old  fellow ; 
we  shall  have  two  of  the  prettiest  girls  who  are  up,  with  us." 

"You  won't  want  me,  tken  ;  they  will  have  plenty  of  escort." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  are  deserted  by  their  natural  guard- 
ian, my  old  uncle,  who  has  gone  out  to  dinner.  Oh,  it's  all 
right ;  they  are  my  cousins,  more  like  sisters,  and  my  uncle 
knows  we  are  going.  In  fact,  it  was  he  who  settled  that  I 
should  take  them." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see  I  don't  know  them." 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  I  can't  take  them  both  myself — I 
must  have  somebody  with  me,  and  I'm  so  glad  to  get  the  chance 
of  introducing  you  to  some  of  my  people.  .  You'll  know  them 
all,  I  hope,  before  long." 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  it  very  much,  if  you  are  sure  it's  all 
right." 

Tom  was  as  perfectly  sure  as  usual,  and  so  the  matter^  was 
arranged.  Hardy  was  very  much  pleased  and  gratified  at  this 
proof  of  his  friend's  confidence  ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  say  that 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHURCH  MEADOWS.     28T 

he  did  not  shave  again,  and  pay  most  unwonted  attention  to 
his  toilet  before  the  hour  fixed  for  Tom's  return.  The  fame  of 
Brown's  lionesses  had  spread  through  St.  Ambrose's  already, 
and  Hardy  had  heard  of  them  as  well  as  other  men.  There  was 
something  so  unusual  to  him  in  being  selected  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, when  the  smartest  men  in  the  college  were  wishing  and 
plotting  for  that  which  came  to  him  unasked,  that  he  may  be 
pardoned  for  feeling  something  a  little  like  vanity,  while 
he  adjusted  the  coat  which  Tom  had  recently  thought  of  with 
such  complacency,  and  looked  in  the  glass  to  see  that  his  gown 
hung  gracefully.  The  effect  on  the  whole  was  so  good,  that 
Tom  was  above  measure  astonished  when  he  came  back,  and 
could  not  help  indulging  in  some  gentle  chaff  as  they  walked 
towards  the  High  Street  arm  in  arm. 

The  young  ladies  were  quite  rested,  and  sitting  dressed  and 
ready  for  their  walk  when  Tom  and  Hardy  were  announced, 
and  entered  the  room.  Miss  Winter  rose  up,  surprised  and  a 
little  embarrassed  at  the  introduction  of  a  total  stranger  in  her 
father's  absence.  But  she  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  as 
became  a  well-bred  young  woman,  though  she  secretly  resolved 
to  lecture  Tom  in  private,  as  he  introduced  "  My  great  friend, 
Mr.  Hardy,  of  our  college.  My  cousins."  Mary  dropped  a 
pretty  little  demure  courtesy,  lifting  her  eyes  for  one  moment 
for  a  glance  at  Tom,  which  said  as  plain  as  look  could  speak, 
"  Well,  I  must  say  you  are  making  the  most  of  your  new- 
found relationship."  He  was  a  little  put  out  for  a  moment, 
but  then  recovered  himself,  and  said,  apologetically, — 

"Mr.  Hardy  is  a  bachelor,  Katie — I  mean  a  Bachelor  of 
Arts,  and  he  knows  all  the  people  by  sight  up  here.  We 
couldn't  have  gone  to  the  walk  without  some  one  to  show  us 
the  lions." 

"Indeed,  I'm  afraid  you  give  me  too  much  credit,"  said 
Hardy.  "  I  know  most  of  our  dons  by  sight  certainly,  but 
'scarcely  any  of  the  visitors." 

The  awkwardness  of  Tom's  attempted  explanation  set  every- 
ching  wrong  again. 

Then  came  one  of  those  awkward  pauses,  which  will  occur 
so  very  provokingly  at  the  most  inopportune  times.  Miss 
Winter  was  seized  with  one  of  the  uncontrollable  fits  of  shy- 
ness, her  bondage  to  which  she  had  so  lately  been  grieving, 
over  to  Mary ;  and  in  self-defence,  and  without  meaning  in  the 
least  to  do  so,  drew  herself  up,  and  looked  as  proud  as  you 
please.  Hardy,  whose  sensitiveness,  as  we  have  seen,  was  as 
keen  as  a  woman's,  felt  in  a  moment  the  awkwardness  of  the 
situation,  and  became  as  shy  as  Miss  Winter  herself./  *If  the 


288  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

floor  would  have  suddenly  opened,  and  let  him  through  into 
the  dark  shop,  he  would  have  been  thankful ;  but,  as  it  would 
not,  there  he  stood,  meditating  a  sudden  retreat  from  the  room, 
and  a  tremendous  onslaught  on  Tom,  as  soon  as  he  could 
catch  him  alone,  for  getting  him  into  such  a  scrape.  Tom  was 
provoked  with  them  all,  for  not  at  once  feeling  at  ease  with 
one  another,  and  stood  twirling  his  cap  by  the  tassel,  and  look- 
ing fiercely  at  it,  resolved  not  to  break  the  silence.  He  had 
been  at  all  the  trouble  of  bringing  about  this  charming  situa- 
tion, and  now  nobody  seemed  to  like  it,  or  to  know  what  to  say  or 
do.  They  might  get  themselves  out  of  it  as  they  could,  for 
anything  he  cared ;  he  was  not  going  to  bother  himself  any 
more. 

Mary  looked  in  the  glass,  to  see  that  her  bonnet  was  quite 
right,  and  then  from  one  to  another  of  her  companions,  in  a 
little  wonder  at  their  unaccountable  behavior,  and  a  little  pique 
that  two  young  men  should  be  standing  there  like  unpleasant 
images,  and  not  availing  themselves  of  the  privilege  of  trying 
as  least  to  make  themselves  agreeable  to  her.  Luckily, 
however,  for  the  party,  the  humorous  side  of  the  tableau 
struck  her  with  great  force,  so  that  when  Tom  lifted  his  mis- 
anthropic eyes  for  a  moment,  and  caught  hers,  they  were  so 
full  of  fun  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  allow  himself,  not 
without  a  struggle,  to  break  first  into  a  smile  and  then  into  a 
laugh.  This  brought  all  eyes  to  bear  on  him,  and  the  ice 
being  once  broken,  dissolved  as  quickly  as  it  had  gathered. 

"  I  really  can't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh  at,  Tom,"  saJd 
Miss  "Winter,  smiling  herself,  nevertheless,  and  blushing  a 
little,  as  she  worked  or  pretended  to  work  at  buttoning  one  of 
her  gloves. 

"  Can't  you,  Katie  ?  Well  then,  isn't  it  very  ridiculous,  and 
enough  to  make  one  laugh,  that  we  four  should  be  standing 
here  in  a  sort  of  Quaker's  meeting,  when  we  ought  to  be  half- 
way to  the  Long  "Walk  by  this  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  let  us  start,"  said  Mary ;  "  I  know  we  *  shall,  be 
missing  all  the  best  of  the  sight." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  said  Tom,  leading  the  way  downstairs, 
and  Hardy  and  the  ladies  followed,  and  they  •  descended  into 
the  High  Street,  walking  all  abreast,  the  two  ladies  together, 
with  a  gentleman  on  either  flank.  This  formation  answered 
well  enongh  in  High  Street,  the  broad  pavement  of  that  cele- 
brated thoroughfare  being  favorable  to  an  ^advance  in  line. 
But  when  they  had  wheeled  into  Oriel  Lane  .the  narrow  pave- 
ment at  once  threw;  the  line  into  confusion,  "and  after  lone  or 
two  fruitless  attempts  to^take  :  up  the 'dressing  they  settled 


TUE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCJJURCH  MEADOWS.     289 

down  into  the  more  natural  formation  of  close  column  of 
couples,  the  leading  couple  consisting  of  Mary  and  Tom,  and 
the  remaining  couple  of  Miss  Winter  and  Hardy.  It  was  a 
lovely  midsummer  evening,  and  Oxford  was  looking  her  best 
under  the  genial,  cloudless  sky,  so  that,  what  with  the  usual 
congratulations  on  the  weather,  and  explanatory  remarks  on 
the  buildings  as  they  passed  along,  Hardy  managed  to  keep  up 
a  conversation  with  his  companion  without  much  difficulty. 
Miss  Winter  was  pleased  with  his  quiet  deferential  manner, 
and  soon  lost  her  feeling  of  shyness,  and,  before  Hardy  had  come 
to  the  end  of  such  remarks  as  it  occurred  to  him  to  make,  she 
wns  taking  her  fair  share  in  the  talk.  In  describing  their  day's 
doings  she  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  Magdalen 
Chapel,  and  betrayed  a  little  knowledge  of  traceries  and  mould- 
ings, which  gave  an  opening  to  her  companion  to  travel  out  of 
the  weather  and  the  names  of  colleges.  Church  architecture 
was  just  one  of  the  subjects  which  was  sure  at  that  time  to 
take  more  or  less  hold  on  every  man  at  Oxford  whose  mind  was 
open  to  the  influences  of  the  place.  Hardy  had  read  the  usual 
text-books,  and  kept  his  eyes  open  as  he  walked  about  the 
town  and  neighborhood.  To  Miss  Winter  he  seemed  so  learned 
on  the  subject,  that  she  began  to  doubt  his  tendencies,  and 
was  glad  to  be  reassured  by  some  remarks  which  fell  from  him 
as  to  the  University  sermon  which  she  had  heard.  She  was 
glad  to  find  that  her  cousin's  most  intimate  friend  was  not 
likely  to  lead  him  into  the  errors  of  Tractarianism. 

Meantime,  the  leading  couple  were  getting  on  satisfactorily 
in  their  way. 

"  Isn't  it  good  of  Uncle  Robert  ?  he  says  he  shall  feel  quite 
comfortable  as  long  as  you  and  Katie  are  with  me.  In  fact  I 
feel  quite  responsible  already,  like  an  old  dragon  in  a  story- 
book watching  a  treasure." 

"  Yes,  but  what  does  Katie  say  to  being  .nade  a  treasure  of  ? 
She  has  to  think  a  good  deal  for  herself ;  and  I  am  afraid  you 
are  not  quite  certain  of  being  our  sole  knight  and  guardian  be- 
cause Uncle  Robert  wants  to  get  rid  of  us.  Poor  old  uncle !  " 

"  But  you  wouldn't  object,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no— at  least,  not  unless  yon  take  to  looking  as 
cross  as  you  did  just  now  in  our  lodgings.  Of  course,  I'm  all 
for  dragons  who  are  mad  about  dancing,  and  never  think  of 
leaving  a  ball-room  till  the  band  packs  up  and  the  old  man 
shuffles  in  to  put  out  the  lights." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  a  model  dragon,"  said  Tom.  Twenty-four 
hours  earlier  he  had  declared  that  nothing  should  induce  him 
to  go  to  the  balls ;  but  his  views  on  the  subject  had  been  great- 


290  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

ly  modified,  and  he  had  been  worrying  all  his  acquaintance, 
not  unsuccessfully,  for  the  necessary  tickets,  ever  since  his 
talk  with  his  cousins  on  the  preceding  evening. 

The  scene  became  more  and  more  gay  and  lively  as  they 
passed  out  of  Christchurch  towards  the  Long  Walk.  The 
town  turned  out  to  take  its  share  in  the  show ;  the  citizens  of 
all  ranks,  the  poorer  ones  accompanied  by  children  of  all  ages, 
trooped  along  cheek  by  jowl  with  members  of  the  University 
of  all  degrees  and  their  visitors,  somewhat  indeed  to  the  dis- 
gust of  certain  of  these  latter,  many  of  whom  declared  that  the 
whole  thing  was  spoilt  by  the  miscellaneousness  of  the  crowd, 
and  that  "  those  sort  of  people "  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to 
come  to  the  Long  Walk  on  Show  Sunday.  However,  "  those 
sort  of  people  "  abounded,  nevertheless,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
very  much  in  sober  fashion,  the  solemn  march  up  and  down 
beneath  the  grand  avenue  of  elms,  in  the  midst  of  their 
betters. 

The  University  was  there  in  strength,  from  the  vice-chancellor 
downwards.  Somehow  or  another,  though  it  might  seem  an 
unreasonable  thing  at  first  sight  for  grave  and  reverend  persons 
to  do,  yet  most  of  the  gravest  of  them  found  some  reason  for 
taking  a  turn  in  the  Long  Walk.  As  for  the  undergraduates, 
they  turned  out  almost  to  a  man,  and  none  of  them  more 
certainly  than  the  young  gentlemen,  elaborately  dressed,  who 
had  sneered  at  the  whole  ceremony  as  snobbish  an  hour  or  two 
before. 

As  for  our  hero,  he  sailed  into  the  meadows  throughly  satis- 
fied for  the  moment  with  himself  and  his  convoy.  He  had 
every  reason  to  be  so,  for  though  there  were  many  gayer  and 
more  fashionably  dressed  ladies  present  than  his  cousin,  and 
cousin  by  courtesy,  there  were  none  there  whose  faces,  figures, 
and  dresses  carried  more  unmistakably  the  marks  of  that 
thorough,  quiet,  high  breeding,  that  refinement  which  is  no 
mere  surface  polish,  and  that  fearless  unconsciousness  which 
looks  out  from  pure  hearts,  which  are  still,  thank  God,  to  be 
found  in  so  many  homes  of  the  English  gentry. 

The  Long  Walk  was  filling  rapidly,  and  at  every  half-dozen 
paces  Tom  was  greeted  by  some  of  his  friends  or  acquaintance, 
and  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  them.  But  he  allowed  them 
one  after  another  to  pass  by  without  effecting  any  introduction. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  acquaintances,"  said  his 
companion,  upon  whom  none  of  these  salutations  were  lost. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  one  gets  to  know  a  great  many  men  up  here." 

"  It  must  be  very  pleasant.  But  does  it  not  interfere  a  great 
deal  with  your  reading  *  " 


THE  LOXG  WALK  IN  CHR1STCHURCH  MEADOWS.    291 

"  No  ;  because  one  meets  them  at  lectures,  and  in  Hall  and 
Chapel.  Besides,"  he  added  in  a  sudden  fit  of  honesty  "  it  is 
my  first  year.  One  doesn't  read  much  in  one's  first  year.  It 
is  a  much  harder  thing  than  people  thiuk  to  take  to  reading, 
except  just  before  an  examination." 

"  But  your  great  friend  who  is  walking  with  Katie — what 
did  you  say  his  name  is  ?  " 

«  Hardy." 

"  Well,  he  is  a  great  scholar,  didn't  you  say?" 

"Yes,  he  has  just  taken  a  first  class.  He  is  the  best  man  of 
his  year." 

"  How  proud  you  must  be  of  him !  I  suppose  now  he  is  a 
great  reader  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  great  at  everything.  He  is  nearly  the  best  oar 
in  our  boat.  By  the  way,  you  will  come  to  the  procession  of 
boats  to-morrow  night  ?  We  are  the  head  boat  on  the  river." 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  Is  it  a  pretty  sight?  Let  us  ask  Katie 
about  it." 

"  It  is  the  finest  sight  in  the  world,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
never  seen  it ;  "  twenty-four  eight  oars,  with  their  flags  flying, 
and  all  the  crews  in  uniform.  You  see  the  barges  over  there, 
moored  along  the  side  of  the  river.  You  will  sit  on  one  of 
them  as  we  pass." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Mary,  looking  across  the  meadow 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed ;  "  you  mean  those  great 
gilded  things.  But  I  don't  see  the  river." 

"Shall  we  walk  round  there?  It  won't  take  us  ten 
minutes." 

"  But  we  must  not  leave  the  walk  and  all  the  people.  It  is 
so  amusing  here." 

"  Then  you  will  wear  our  colors  at  the  procession  to-mor- 
row ? " 

"  Yes,  if  Katie  doesn't  mind.  At  least  if  they  are  pretty.^ 
What  are  your  colors  ?  " 

"Blue  and  white.  I  will  get  you  some  ribbons  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Very  well,  and  I  will  make  them  up  into  rosettes." 

*Why,  do  you  know  them?"  asked  Tom,  as  she  bowed  to 
two  gentlemen  in  masters'  caps  and  gowns,  whom  they  met  in 
the  crowd. 

"Yes ;  at  least  we  met  them  last  night." 

**  But  do  you  know  who  they  are  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  they  were  introduced  to  us,  and  I  talked  a  great 
deal  to  them.  And  Katie  scolded  me  for  it  when  we  got  home. 
No ;  I  won't  say  scolded  me,  but  looked  very  grave  over  it." 


292  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  They  are  two  of  the  leaders  of  the  Tractarians." 

"  Yes.  That  was  the  fun  of  it.  Katie  was  so  pleased  and 
interested  with  them  at  first ;  ranch  more  than  I  was.  But 
when  she  found  out  who  they  were,  she  fairly  ran  away,  and  I 
stayed  and  talked  on.  I  don't  think  they  said  anything  very 
dangerous.  Perhaps  one  of  them  wrote  No.  90.  Do  you 
know?" 

"  I  dare  say.  But  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  However 
they  must  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  I  should  think,  up  here  with 
the  old  dons." 

"  But  don't  you  think  one  likes  people  who  are  persecuted  ? 
I  declare  I  would  listen  to  them  for  an  hour  though  I  didn't 
understand  a  word,  just  to  show  them  that  I  wasrrt  afraid  of 
them,  and  sympathized  with  them.  How  can  people  be  so  ill- 
natured  ?  I'm  sure  they  only  write  what  they  believe,  and  think 
will  do  good." 

"That's  just  what  most  of  us  feel,"  said  Tom ;  "  we  hate  to 
see  them  put  down  because  they  don't  agree  with  the  swells 
up  here.  You'll  see  how  they  will  be  cheered  in  the  theatre." 

"Then  they  are  not  unpopular  and  persecuted  after  all?" 

"Oh,  yes,  by  the  dons.  And  that's  why  we  all  like  them. 
From  fellow-feeling  you  see,  because  the  dons  bully  them  and 
us  equally." 

"  But  I  thought  they  were  dons  too  ?  " 

"  Well,  so  they  are,  but  not  regular  dons,  you  know,  like 
the  proctors,  and  deans,  and  that  sort." 

His  companion  did  not  understand  this  delicate  distinction, 
but  wag  too  much  interested  in  watching  the  crowd  to  inquire 
further. 

Presently  they  met  two  of  the  heads  of  houses  walking  with 
several  strangers.  Every  one  was  noticing  them,  as  they 
passed,  and  of  course  Tom  was  questioned  as  to  who  1  hey  were. 
Not  being  prepared  with  an  answer  he  appealed  to  Hardy,  who 
was  just  behind  them  talking  to  Miss  Winter.  They  were  some 
of  the  celebrities  on  whom  honoi'ary  degrees  were  to  be  con- 
ferred, Hardy  said  ;  a  famous  American  author,  a  foreign  am- 
bassador, a  well-known  Indian  soldier,  and  others.  Then  came 
some  more  M.A.'s,  one  of  whom  this  t>»e  bowed  to  Miss  Win- 
ter. 

"  Who  was  that,  Katie  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  gentlemen  we  met  last  night.  I  did  not  catch 
his  name,  but  he  was  very  agreeable.' 

"  Oh,  I  remember.  You  were  talking  to  him  for  a  long  time 
after  you  ran  away  from  me.  I  was  very  curious  to  know  what 
you  were  saying,  you  seemed  so  interested." 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHURCH  MEADOW'S.     293 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  have  made  the  most  of  your  time  last 
night,"  said  Tom  ;  "  I  should  have  thought,  Katie,  you  would 
hardly  have  approved  of  him  either." 

"  But  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  most  dangerous  man  in  Oxford.  What  do  they 
call  him — a  Germanizer  and  a  rationalist  ;  isn't  it,  Hardy?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so,"  said  Hardy. 

"  Oh,  think  of  that  !  There,  Katie  ;  you  had  much  better 
have  stayed  by  me  after  all.  A  Germanizer,  didn't  you  say  ? 
What  a  hard  word.  It  must  be  much  worse  than  Tractarian. 
Isn't  it  now  ?  " 

"  Mary,  dear,  pray  take  care  ;  everybody  will  hear  you," 
said  Miss  Winter. 

"  I  wish  I  thought  that  everybody  would  listen  to  me,"  replied 
Miss  Mary.  "  But  I  really  will  be  very  quiet,  Katie, — only  I 
must  know  which  is  the  worst,  my  Tractarians  or  your  Ger- 
manizer ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  Germanizer  of  course,"said  Tom. 

u  But  why  ?  "  said  Hardy,  who  could  do  no  less  than  break 
a  lance  for  his  companion.  Moreover  he  happened  to  have 
strong  convictions  on  these  subjects. 

"  Why  ?  Because  one  knows  the  worst  of  where  the  Trac- 
tarians are  going.  The  ymay  go  to  Rome  and  there's  an  end 
of  it.  But  the  Germanize rs  are  going  into  the  abysses,  or  no 
one  knows  where." 

"  There,  Katie,  you  hear,  I  hope,"  interrupted  Miss  Mary, 
coming  to  her  companion's  rescue  before  Hardy  could  bring 
his  artillery  to  bear,  "  but  what  a  terrible  place  Oxford  must 
be.  I  declare  it  seems  quite  full  of  people  whom  it  is  unsafe 
to  talk  with." 

"  I  wish  it  were,  if  they  were  all  like  Miss  Winter's  friend," 
said  Hardy.  And  then  the  crowd  thickened,  and  they  dropped 
behind  again.  Tom  was  getting  to  think  more  of  his  com- 
panion and  less  of  himself  every  minute,  when  he  was  suddenly 
confronted  in  the  walk  by  Benjamin,  the  Jew  money-lender, 
smoking  a  cigar  and  dressed  in  a  gaxidy-figured  satin  waistcoat 
and  waterfall  of  the  same  material,  and  resplendent  with 
jewelry.  He  had  business  to  attend  to  in  Oxford  at  this  time 
of  the  year.  Nothing  escaped  the  eyes  of  Tom's  companion. 

"  Who  was  that  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  what  a  dreadful-looking  man  ! 
Surely,  he  bowed  as  if  he  knew  you  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say.    He  is  impudent  enough  for  anything,"  said  Tom. 

"  But  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  rascally  fellow  who  sells  bad  cigars  and  worse  wine." 

Tom's  equanimity  was  much  shaken  by  the  apparition  of  the 


$94  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Jew.  The  remembrance  of  the  bill  scene  at  the  public  house 
in  the  Corn-market,  and  the  unsatisfactory  prospect  in  that 
matter,  with  Blake  plucked  and  Drysdale  no  longer  a  member 
of  the  University  and  utterly  careless  as  to  his  liabilities,  came 
across  him,  and  made  him  silent  and  absent. 

He  answered  at  hazard  to  his  companion's  remarks  for  the 
next  minute  or  two,  until,  after  some  particularly  inappropriate 
reply,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment 
with  steady,  wide-open  eyes,  which  brought  him  to  himself,  or 
rather  drove  him  into  himself,  in  no  time. 

"I  really  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  very  rude,  I 
fear.  It  is  so  strange  to  me  to  be  walking  here  with  ladies. 
What  were  you  saying  ?  " 

11  Nothing  of  any  consequence — I  really  forget.  But  is  it  a 
very  strange  thing  for  you  to  walk  with  ladies  here  ?  " 

"  Strange !  I  should  think  it  was  !  I  have  never  seen  a  lady 
that  I  knew  up  here,  till  you  came." 

"Indeed!  but  there  must  be  plenty  of  ladies  living  in 
Oxford?" 

"I  don't  believe  there  are.     At  least,  we  never  see  them." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be  on  your  best  behavior  when  we  do 
come.  I  shall  expect  you  now  to  listen  to  everything  I  say, 
and  to  answer  my  silliest  questions." 

"  Oh,  you  ought  not  to  be  so  hard  on  us." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  not  used  to  answering  silly  ques- 
tions ?  How  wise  you  must  all  grow,  living  up  here  to- 
gether." 

"Perhaps.  But  the  wisdom  doesn't  come  down  to  the  first- 
year  men  ;  and  so — " 

"  Well,  why  do  you  stop  ?  " 

"Because  I  was  going  to  say  something  you  might  not 
like." 

"  Then  I  insist  on  hearing  it.  Now,  I  shall  not  let  you  off. 
You  were  saying  that  wisdom  does  not  come  so  low  as  first- 
year  men  ;  and  so — what  ?  " 

"  And  so — and  so,  they  are  not  wise." 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  but  that  was  not  what  you  were  going  to 
say ;  and  so — " 

"  And  so  they  were  generally  agreeable,  for  wise  people  are 
always  dull ;  and  so — ladies  ought  to  avoid  the  dons." 

"  And  not  avoid  first-year  men  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so." 

"  Because  they  are  foolish,  and  therefore  fit  company  for 
ladies.  Now,  really — " 

"  No,  no  ;  because  they  are  foolish,  and  therefore,  they 
ought  to  be  made  wise ;  >and  ladies  are  wiser  than  dons." 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHURCH  MEADOWS.    295 

"  And,  therefore,  duller,  for  all  wise  people,  you  said,  were 
dull." 

"  Not  all  wise  people ;  only  people  who  are  wise  by  cram- 
ming,— as  dons ;  but  ladies  are  wise  by  inspiration." 

"And  first-year  men,  are  they  foolish  by  inspiration  and 
agreeable  by  cramming,  or  agreeable  by  inspiration  and  foolish 
by  cramming  ?  " 

"  They  are  agreeable  by  inspiration  in  the  society  of  ladies." 

"Then  they  can  never  be  agreeable,  for  you  say  they  never 
Bee  ladies." 

"  Not  with  the  bodily  eye,  but  with  the  eye  of  fancy." 

"  Then  their  agreeableness  must  be  all  fancy." 

"But  it  is  better  to  be  agreeable  in  fancy  than  dull  in 
reality." 

tt  That  depends  upon  whose  fancy  it  is.  To  be  agreeable  in 
your  own  fancy  is  compatible  with  being  as  dull  in  reality 
as — " 

"  How  you  play  with  words ;  I  see  you  won't  leave  me  a 
shred  either  of  fancy  or  agreeableness  to  stand  on." 

"  Then  I  shall  do  you  good  service.  I  shall  destroy  your 
illusions ;  you  cannot  stand  on  illusions." 

"  But  remember  what  my  illusions  were, — fancy  and  agree- 
ableness." 

'*  But  your  agreeableness  stood  on  fancy,  and  your  fancy  on 
nothing.  You  had  better  settle  down  at  once  on  the  solid 
baseness  of  dulness,  like  the  dons." 

"  Then  I  am  to  found  myself  on  fact,  and  try  to  be  dull  ? 
What  a  conclusion !  But  perhaps  dulness  itt  no  more  a  fact 
than  fancy ; — what  is  dulness  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  undertake  to  define ;  you  are  the  best 
judge." 

"  Eow  severe  you  are  !  Now,  see  how  generous  I  am. 
Dulness  in  society  is  the  absence  of  ladies." 

"  Alas,  poor  Oxford !  Who  is  that  in  the  velvet  sleeves  ? 
Why  do  you  touch  your  cap  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  proctor.  He  is  our  Cerberus ;  he  has  to  keep 
all  undergraduates  in  good  order. 

"  What  a  task !     He  ought  to  have  three  heads." 

"  He  has  only  one  head,  but  it  is  a  very  long  one.  And  he 
has  a  tail  like  any  Basha,  composed  of  pro-proctors,  marshals, 
and  bull-dogs,  and  I  don't  know  what  all.  But  to  go  back  to 
what  we  were  saying — " 

"  No,  don't  let  us  go  back.  I'm  tired  of  it ;  besides,  you 
were  just  beginning  about  dulness.  How  can  you  expect  me 
to  listen  now  ?  " 


296  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD, 

"  Oh,  but  do  listen,  just  for  two  minutes.  Will  you  be 
gerious?  I  do  want  to  know  what  you  really  think  when  you 
hear  the  case." 

"  Well,  I  will  try,  for  two  minutes,  mind." 

Upon  gaining  which  permission  Tom  went  off  into  an 
interesting  discourse  on  the  unnaturalness  of  men's  lives  at 
Oxford,  which  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  inflict  on  my 
readers.  As  he  was  waxing  eloquent  and  sentimental,  he 
chanced  to  look  from  his  companion's  face  for  a  moment  in 
search  of  a  simile,  when  his  eyes  alighted  on  that  virtuous 
member  of  society,  Dick,  the  factotum  of  the  Choughs,  who 
was  taking  his  turn  in  the  Long  Walk  with  his  betters.  Dick's 
face  was  twisted  into  an  uncomfortable  grin ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Tom  and  his  companion ;  and  he  made  a  sort  of  half 
motion  towards  touching  his  hat,  but  couldn't  quite  carry  it 
through,  and  so  passed  by. 

"  Ah  !  aint  he  a  going  of  it  again,"  he  muttered  to  himself ; 
"  jist  like  'em  all." 

Tom  didn't  hear  the  words,  but  the  look  had  been  quite 
enough  for  him,  and  he  broke  off  short  in  his  speech,  and 
turned  his  head  away,  and  after  two  or  three  flounderings 
which  Mary  seemed  not  to  notice,  stopped  short,  and  let  Miss 
Winter  and  Hardy  join  them. 

"  It's  getting  dark,"  he  said,  as  they  came  up ;  "the  walk  is 
thinning;  ought  we  not  to  be  going?  Remember,  I  am  in 
charge." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  time." 

At  this  moment  the  great  Christ  Church  bell — Tom,  by  name 
— began  to  toll. 

"  Surely,  that  can't  be  Tom  ? "  Miss  Winter  said,  who 
had  heard  the  one  hundred  and  one  strokes  on  former  oc- 
casions. 

"  Indeed  it  is,  though." 

"  But  how  very  light  it  is." 

"  It  is  almost  the  longest  day  in  the  year,  and  there  hasn't 
been  a  cloud  all  day." 

They  started  to  walk  home  altogether,  and  Tom  gradually 
recovered  himself,  but  left  the  laboring  oar  to  Hardy,  who  did 
his  work  very  well,  and  persuaded  the  ladies  to  go  on  and  see 
the  Ratcliffe  by  moonlight, — the  only  time  to  see  it,  as  he 
said,  because  of  the  shadows, — and  just  to  look  in  at  the  old 
quadrangle  of  St.  Ambrose. 

It  was  almost  ten  o'clock  when  they  stopped  at  the  lodgings 
in  High  Street.  While  they  were  waiting  for  the  door  to  be 
opened,  Hardy  said, — 


THE  LONG  WALK  IN  CHRISTCHURCH  MEADOW 8.    297 

"  I  really  must  apologize,  Miss  Winter,  to  you,  for  my  in- 
trusion to-night.  I  hope  your  father  will  allow  me  to  call  on 
him." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  pray  do ;  he  will  be  so  glad  to  see  any  friend  of 
my  cousin." 

"  And  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  him ;  or  to  you,  or  your 
sister — " 

"  My  sister !     Oh,  you  mean  Mary  ?    She  is  not  my  sister.** 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  hope  you  will  let  me  know  if 
there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  Indeed  we  will.  Now,  Mary,  papa  will  be  worrying  about 
us."  And  so  the  young  ladies  said  their  adieus,  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  Surely,  you  told  me  they  were  sisters,"  said  Hardy,  as  the 
two  walked  away  towards  college. 

"  No,  did  1  ?    I  don't  remember." 

"  But  they  are  your  cousins  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  at  least  Katie  is.     Don't  you  like  her  ?  '* 

"  Of  course ;  one  can't  help  liking  her.    But  she  says  you 
have  not  met  for  two  years  or  more." 
No  more  we  have. 

"Then  I  suppose  you  have  seen  more  of  her  companion 
lately?" 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  never  saw  her  before  yesterday." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  took  me  in  there  to-night 
when  you  had  never  seen  one  of  the  young  ladies  before,  and 
the  other  not  for  two  years !  Well,  upon  my  word,  Brown — " 

"  Now  don't  blow  me  up,  old  fellow,  to-night — please  don't. 
There,  I  give  in.  Don't  hit  a  fellow  when  he's  down.  I'm  so 
low."  Tom  spoke  in  such  a  deprecating  tone,  that  Hardy's 
wrath  passed  away. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? "  he  said.  "  You  seemed  to  bo 
full  of  talk.  I  was  envying  your  fluency,  I  know,  often." 

"  Talk ;  yes,  so  I  was.  But  didn't  you  see  Dick  in  the  walk? 
Fou  have  never  heard  anything  more?" 

"  No  ;  but  no  news  is  good  news." 

"  Heigho  !  I'm  awfully  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Let 
me  come  up." 

"  Come  along  then."  And  so  they  disappeared  into  Hardy's 
lodgings. 

The  two  young  ladies,  meanwhile,  soothed  old  Mr.  Winter, 
who  had  eaten  and  drunk  more  than  was  good  for  him,  and  was 
naturally  put  out  thereby.  They  soon  managed  to  persuade 
him  to  retire,  and  then  followed  themselves — first  to  Mary's 
room,  where  that  young  lady  burst  out  at  once, "  What  a  charm- 


298  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

iug  place  it  is !     Oh !  didn't  you  enjoy  your  evening,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  felt  a  little  awkward  without  any  chaperone. 
You  seemed  to  get  on  very  well  with  my  cousin.  You  scarcely 
spoke  to  us  in  the  Long  Walk  till  just  before  we  came  away. 
W  hat  were  you  talking  about  ?  " 

Mary  burst  into  a  gay  laugh.  "All  sorts  of  nonsense,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  talked  so  much  nonsense  in  my 
life.  I  hope  he  isn't  shocked.  Idon't  think  he  is.  But  I  said 
anything  tfiat  came  into  my  head.  I  couldn't  help  it.  You 
don't  think  it  wrong?" 

"  Wrong,  dear  ?     No,  I'm  sure  you  could  say  nothing  wrong." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  But,  Katie  dear,  I  know  there  is 
something  on  his  mind." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Oh!  because  he  stopped  short  twice,  and  became  quite  ab- 
sent, and  seemed  not  to  hear  anything  I  said." 

"  How  odd  !  I  never  knew  him  to  do  so.  Did  you  see  any 
reason  for  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  unless  it  was  two  men  we  passed  in  the  crowd.  One 
was  a  vulgar-looking  wretch,  who  was  smoking — a  fat  black 
thing,  with  such  a  thick  nose,  covered  with  jewellery — " 

"  Not  his  nose,  dear  ?  " 

"  No,  but  his  dress ;  and  the  other  was  a  homely,  dried-up 
little  man,  like  one  of  your  Englebourn  troubles.  I'm  sure 
there  is  some  mystery  about  them,  and  I  shall  find  it  out.  But 
how  did  you  like  his  friend,  Katie?" 

"  Very  much  indeed.  I  was  rather  uncomfortable  at  walk- 
ing so  long  with  a  stranger.  But  he  was  very  pleasant,  and 
is  so  fond  of  Tom.  I  am  sure  he  is  a  very  good  friend  for  him." 

"  He  looks  a  good  man  ;  but  how  ugly ! " 

"  Do.  you  think  so  ?  We  shall  have  a  hard  day  to-morrow. 
Good-night,  dear." 

"  Good-night,  Katie.  But  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sleepy."  And 
so  the  cousins  kissed  one  another,  and  Miss  Winter  wont  tc 
her  own  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LECTUBING  A  LIONESS. 

THE  evening  of  Show  Sunday  may  serve  as  a  fair  sample  of 
what  this  eventful  Commemoration  was  to  our  hero.  The 
constant  intercourse  with  ladies, — with  such  ladies  as  Miss 
Winter  and  Mary, —  young,  good-looking,  well-spoken,  and 
creditable  in  all  ways,  was  very  delightful,  and  the  more  fas- 
cinating, from  the  sudden  change  which  their  presence  wrought 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS.  299 

in  the  ordinary  mode  of  life  of  the  place.  They  would  have 
been  charming  in  any  room,  but  were  quite  irresistible  in  his 
den,  which  no  female  presence,  except  that  of  his  blowsy  old 
bedmaker,  had  lightened  since  he  had  been  in  possession.  All 
the  associations  of  the  freshman's  rooms  were  raised  at  once. 
"When  he  came  in  at  night  now,  he  could  look  sentimentally  at 
his  arm-chair  (christened  "  The  Captain,"  after  Captain  Hardy), 
on  which  Katie  had  sat  to  make  breakfast ;  or  at  the  brass  peg 
on  the  door,  on  which  Mary  had  hung  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
after  displacing  his  gown.  His  very  teacups  and  saucers,  which 
were  already  a  miscellaneous  set  of  several  different  patterns, 
had  made  a  move  almost  into  his  affections  ;  at  least,  the  two 
— one  brown,  one  blue — which  the  young  ladies  had  used.  A 
human  interest  belonged  to  them  now,  and  they  were  no 
longer  mere  crockery.  He  thought  of  buying  two  very  pretty 
China  ones,  the  most  expensive  he  could  find  in  Oxford,  and 
getting  them  to  use  these  for  the  first  time,  but  rejected  the 
idea.  The  fine  new  ones,  he  felt,  would  never  be  the  same  to 
him.  They  had  come  in  and  used  his  own  rubbish ;  that  was 
the  great  charm.  If  he  had  been  going  to  give  them  cups,  no 
material  would  have  been  beautiful  enough ;  but  for  his  own 
use  after  them,  the  commoner  the  better.  The  material  was 
nothing,  the  association  everything.  It  is  marvellous  the 
amount  of  healthy  sentiment  of  which  a  naturally  soft-hearted 
undergraduate  is  capable  by  the  end  of  the  summer  term.  But 
sentiment  is  not  all  one-sided.  The  delights  which  spring  from 
sudden  intimacy  with  the  fairest  and  best  part  of  the  creation, 
are  as  far  above  those  of  the  ordinary  unmitigated,  under- 
graduate life,  as  the  British  citizen  of  1860  is  above  the  rudi- 
mentary personage  in  prehistoric  times  from  whom  he  has  been 
gradually  improved,  up  to  his  present  state  of  enlightenment 
and  perfection.  But  each  state  has  also  its  own  troubles  as 
well  as  its  pleasures ;  and,  though  the  former  are  a  pi'ice  which 
no  decent  fellow  would  boggle  at  for  a  moment,  it  is  useless  to 
pretend  that  paying  them  is  pleasant. 

Now,  at  Commemoration,  as  elsewhere,  where  men  do  con- 
gregate, if  your  lady-visitors  are  not  pretty  or  agreeable  enough 
to  make  your  friends  and  acquaintance  eager  to  know  them, 
and  to  cater  for  their  enjoyment,  and  try  in  all  ways  to  win 
their  favor  and  cut  you  out,  you  have  the  satisfaction  at  any 
rate  of  keeping  them  to  yourself,  though  you  lose  the  pleasures 
which  arise  from  being  sought  after,  and  made  much  of  for 
their  sakes,  and  feeling  raised  above  the  ruck  of  your  neighbors. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  they  are  all  this,  you  might  as  well  try 
to  keep  the  sunshine  and  air  to  yourself.  Universal  human 


300  TOM  BROWN  A T  OXFORD. 

nature  rises  up  against  you ;  and,  besides,  they  will  not  stand 
it  themselves.  And,  indeed,  why  should  they  ?  "Women,  to 
be  very  attractive  to  all  sorts  of  different  people,  must  have 
great  readiness  of  sympathy.  Many  have  it  naturally,  and 
many  work  hard  in  acquiring  a  good  imitation  of  it.  In  the 
first  case  it  is  against  the  nature  of  such  persons  to  be  monopo- 
lized for  more  than  a  very  short  time ;  in  the  second,  all  their 
trouble  would  be  thrown  away  if  they  allowed  themselves  to 
be  monopolized.  Once  in  their  lives,  indeed,  they  will  be,  and 
ought  to  be,  and  that  monopoly  lasts,  or  should  last,  forever ; 
but  instead  of  destroying  in  them  that  which  was  their  great 
charm,  it  only  deepens  and  widens  it,  and  the  sympathy  which 
was  before  fitful,  and,  perhaps,  wayward,  flows  on  in  a  calm 
and  healthy  stream,  blessing  and  cheering  all  who  come  within 
reach  of  its  exhilarating  and  life-giving  waters. 

But  man  of  all  ages  is  a  selfish  animal,  and  unreasonable  in 
his  selfishness.  It  takes  every  one  of  us  in  turn  many  a  shrewd 
fall  in  our  wrestlings  with  the  world  to  convince  us  that  we 
are  not  to  have  everything  our  own  way.  We  are  conscious 
in  our  inmost  souls  that  man  is  the  rightful  lord  of  creation ; 
and,  starting  from  this  eternal  principle,  and  ignoring,  each 
man-child  of  us  in  turn,  the  qualifying  truth  that  it  is  to  man 
in  general,  including  woman,  and  not  to  Thomas  Brown  in 
particular,  that  the  earth  has  been  given,  we  set  about  asserting 
our  kingships  each  in  his  own  way,  and  proclaiming  ourselves 
kings  from  our  own  little  ant-hills  of  thrones.  And  then  come 
the  strugglings  and  the  downfallings,  and  some  of  us  learn  our 
lesson  and  some  learn  it  not.  But  what  lesson?  That  we 
have  been  dreaming  in  the  golden  hours  when  the  vision  of  a 
kingdom  rose  before  us  ?  That  there  is,  in  short,  no  kingdom 
at  all,  or  that,  if  there  be,  we  are  no  heirs  of  it  ? 

No — I  take  it  that,  while  we  make  nothing  better  than  that 
out  of  our  lesson,  we  shall  have  to  go  on  spelling  at  it  and 
stumbling  over  it,  through  all  the  days  of  our  life,  till  we 
make  our  last  stumble,  and  take  our  final  header  out  of  this 
riddle  of  a  world,  which  we  once  dreamed  we  were  to  rule 
over,  exclaiming  "  vanitas  vanitatum ! "  to  the  end.  But  man's 
spirit  will  never  be  satisfied  without  a  kingdom,  and  was  never 
intended  to  be  satisfied  so ;  and  a  wiser  than  Solomon  tells  us 
day  by  day  that  our  kingdom  is  about  us  here,  and  that  we 
may  rise  up  and  pass  in  when  we  will  at  the  shining  gates 
which  He  holds  open,  for  that  it  is  His,  and  we  are  joint  heirs 
of  it  with  Him. 

On  the  whole,  however,  making  allowances  for  all  draw- 
backs, those  Commemoration  days  were  the  pleasantest  day? 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS.  301 

Tom  had  ever  known  at  Oxford.  He  was  with  his  uncle  and 
cousins  early  and  late,  devising  all  sorts  of  pleasant  entertain- 
ments  and  excursions  for  them,  introducing  all  the  pleasantest 
men  of  his  acquaintance,  and  taxing  all  the  resources  of  the 
college,  which  at  such  times  were  available  for  undergraduates 
as  well  ns  their  betters,  to  minister  to  their  comfort  and  enjoy- 
ment. And  he  was  well  repaid.  There  was  something  per- 
fectly new  to  the  ladies,  and  very  piquant  in  the  life  and  habits 
of  the  place.  They  found  it  very  diverting  to  be  receiving  in 
Tom's  rooms,  presiding  over  his  breakfasts  and  luncheons, 
altering  the  position  of  his  furniture,  and  making  the  place 
look  as  pretty  as  circumstances  would  allow.  Then  there  was 
pleasant  occupation  for  every  spare  hour,  and  the  fetes  and 
amusements  were  all  unlike  everything  but  themselves.  Of 
course  the  ladies  at  once  became  enthusiastic  St.  Ambrosians, 
and  managed  in  spite  of  all  distractions  to  find  time  for  making 
up  rosettes  and  bows  of  blue  and  white,  in  which  to  appear  at 
the  procession  of  the  boats,  which  was  the  great  event  of  the 
Monday.  Fortunately,  Mr.  Winter  had  been  a  good  oar  in 
his  day,  and  had  pulled  in  one  of  the  first  four-oars  in  which 
the  University  races  had  commenced  some  thirty-five  years 
before ;  and  Tom,  who  had  set  his  mind  on  managing  his 
uncle,  worked  him  up  almost  into  enthusiasm  and  forgetfulness 
of  his  maladies,  so  that  he  raised  no  objection  to  a  five  o'clock 
dinner,  and  an  adjournment  to  the  river  almost  immediately 
afterwards.  Jervis,  who  was  all-powerful  on  the  river,  at 
Tom's  instigation  got  an  arm-chair  for  him  in  the  best  part  of 
the  University  barge,  while  the  ladies,  after  walking  along  the 
bank  with  Tom  and  others  of  the  crew,  and  being  instructed  in 
the  colors  of  the  different  boats,  and  the  meaning  of  the  cere- 
mony, took  their  places  in  the  front  row  on  the  top  of  the  barge, 
beneath  the  awning  and  the  flags,  and  looked  down  with  hun- 
dreds of  other  fair  strangers  on  the  scene,  which  certainly 
merited  all  that  Tom  had  said  of  it  on  faith. 

The  barges  above  and  below  the  University  barge,  which 
occupied  the  post  of  honor,  were  also  covered  with  ladies,  and 
Christchurch  meadow  swarmed  with  gay  dresses  and  caps  and 
gowns.  On  the  opposite  side  the  bank  was  lined  with  a  crowd 
in  holiday  clothes,  and  the  punts  plied  across  without  inter- 
mission loaded  with  people,  till  the  groups  stretched  away 
down  the  towing-path  in  an  almost  continuous  line  to  the 
starting-place.  Then,  one  after  another,  the  racing-boats,  all 
painted  and  polished  up  for  the  occasion,  with  the  college  flags 
drooping  at  their  sterns,  put  out  and  passed  down  to  their 
stations,  and  the  bands  played,  and  the  sun  shone  his  best 


SUU  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

And  then  after  a  short  pause  of  expectation,  the  distant  bank 
became  all  alive,  and  the  groups  all  turned  one  way,  and  came 
up  the  towing-path  again,  and  the  foremost  boat  with  the  blue 
and  white  flag  shot  through  the  Gut  and  came  up  the  reach, 
followed  by  another,  and  another,  and  another,  till  they  were 
tired  of  counting,  and  the  leading  boat  was  already  close  to 
them  before  the  last  had  come  within  sight.  And  the  bands 
played  up  altogether,  and  the  crowd  on  both  sides  cheered  as 
the  St.  Ambrose  boat  spurted  from  the  Cherwell,  and  took  the 
place  of  honor  at  the  winning-post,  opposite  the  University 
barge,  and  close  under  where  they  were  sitting. 

"  Oh,  look,  Katie  dear ;  here  they  are.  There's  Tom,  and 
Mr.  Hardy,  and  Mr.  Jervis  ; "  and  Mary  waved  her  handker- 
chief and  clapped  her  hands,  and  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  enthusi- 
asm, in  which  her  cousin  was  no  whit  behind  her.  The  gallant 
crew  of  St.  Ambrose  were  by  no  means  unconscious  of,  and 
fully  appreciated,  the  compliment. 

Then  the  boats  passed  up  one  by  one ;  and,  as  each  came 
opposite  to  the  St.  Ambrose  boat,  the  crews  tossed  their  oars 
and  cheered,  and  the  St.  Ambrose  crew  tossed  their  oars  and 
cheered  in  return  ;  and  the  whole  ceremony  went  off  in  tri- 
umph, notwithstanding  the  casualty  which  occurred  to  one  of 
the  torpids.  The  torpids  being  filled  with  the  refuse  of  the 
rowing-men, — generally  awkward  or  very  young  oarsmen, — 
find  some  difficulty  in  the  act  of  tossing;  no  very  safe  operation 
for  an  unsteady  crew.  Accordingly,  the  torpid  in  question, 
having  sustained  her  crew  gallantly  till  the  saluting  point,  and 
allowed  them  to  get  their  oars  fairly  into  the  air,  proceeded 
gravely  to  turn  over  on  her  side,  and  shoot  them  out  into  the 
stream. 

A  thrill  rang  along  the  top  of  the  barges,  and  a  little  scream 
or  two  might  have  been  heard  even  through  the  notes  of  Annie 
Laurie,  which  were  filling  the  air  at  the  moment ;  but  the  band 
played  on,  and  the  crew  swam  ashore,  and  two  of  the  punt- 
men  laid  hold  of  the  boat  and  collected  the  oars,  and  nobody 
seemed  to  think  anything  of  it. 

Katie  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Are  they  all  out,  dear?"  she  said;  "can  you  see?  I  can 
•nly  count  eight." 

"Oh,  I  was  too  frightened  to  look.  Let  ine  see ;  yes,  there 
are  nine ;  there's  one  by  himself,  the  little  man  pulling  the 
Weeds  off  his  trousers." 

And  so  they  regained  their  equanimity,  and  soon  after  left 
the  barge,  and  were  escorted  to  the  hall  of  St.  Ambrose  by 
the  crew,  who  gave  an  entertainment  there  to  celebrate  the  occa- 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS. 

sion ;  which  Mr.  Winter  was  induced  to  attend  anfl  pleased  to 
approve,  and  which  lasted  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  the  ball, 
for  which  a  proper  chaperone  had  been  providentially  found. 
And  so  they  passed  the  days  and  nights  of  Commemoration.  * 

But  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  work  to  chronicle  all 
their  doings — how,  notwithstanding  balls  at  night,  they  were 
up  to  chapel  in  the  morning,  and  attended  flower-shows  at 
Worcester  and  musical  promenades  in  New  College,  and  man- 
aged to  get  down  the  river  for  a  picnic  at  Nuneham,  besides 
seeing  everything  that  was  worth  seeing  in  all  the  colleges. 
How  it  was  done,  no  man  can  tell ;  but  done  it  was,  and  they 
seemed  only  the  better  for  it  all.  They  were  waiting  at  the 
gates  of  the  theatre  amongst  the  first,  tickets  in  hand,  and  wit- 
nessed the  whole  scene,  wondering  no  little  at  the  strange  mix- 
ture of  solemnity  and  license,  the  rush  and  crowding  of  the  un- 
dergraduates into  their  gallery,  and  their  free  and  easy  way  of 
taking  the  whole  proceedings  under  their  patronage,  watching 
every  movement  in  the  amphitheatre  and  on  the  floor,  and 
shouting  approval  or  disapproval  of  the  heads  of  their  re- 
public of  learning,  or  of  the  most  illustrious  visitors,  or  cheer- 
ing with  equal  vigor  the  ladies,  Her  Majesty's  ministers,  or  the 
prize  poems.  It  is  a  strange  scene  certainly,  and  has  probably 
puzzled  many  persons  besides  young  ladies.  One  can  well  fan- 
cy the  astonishment  of  the  learned  foreigner,  for  instance- 
when  he  sees  the  head  of  the  University,  which  he  has  rever, 
enced  at  a  distance  from  his  youth  up,  rise  in  his  robes  in  sol- 
emn convocation  to  exercise  one  of  the  highest  of  university 
functions,  and  heai-s  his  sonorous  Latin  periods  interrupted  by 
"  three  cheers  for  the  ladies  in  pink  bonnets !  "  or,  when  some 
man  is  introduced  for  an  honorary  degree,  whose  name  may  be 
known  throughout  the  civilized  world,  and  the  vice-chancellor, 
turning  to  his  compeers,  inquires, "  Placetne  vobis,  domini  doc- 
tores,  placetne  vobis,  magistri,"  and  he  hears  the  voices  of  doc- 
tors and  masters  drowned  in  contradictory  shouts  from  the 
young  Demos  in  the  gallery,  "Who  is  he?"  "Non  placet  1" 
"Placet !  "  "  Why  does  he  carry  an  umbrella?  "  It  is  thorough- 
ly English,  and  that  is  just  all  that  need,  or  indeed  can,  be 
said  for  it  all ;  but  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  us  would  alter  it 
if  we  could,  beyond  suppressing  some  of  the  personalities  which 
of  late  years  have  gone  somewhat  too  far. 

After  the  theatre  there  was  a  sumptuous  lunch  in  All  Souls', 
and  then  a  fete  in  St.  John's  Gardens.  Now,  at  the  aforesaid 
luncheon,  Tom's  feelings  had  been  severely  tried  ;  in  fact,  the 
little  troubles  which,  as  has  been  before  hinted,  are  incident  to 
persons,  especially  young  men  in  his  fortunate  predicament. 


304  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

came  to  a  head.  He  was  separated  from  his  cousins  a  little 
way.  Being  a  guest,  and  not  an  important  one  in  the  eyes  of 
the  All  Souls'  fellows,  he  had  to  find  his  level ;  which  was  very 
much  below  that  allotted  to  his  uncle  and  cousins.  In  short, 
he  felt  that  they  were  taking  him  about,  instead  of  he  them — 
which  change  of  position  was  in  itself  trying ;  and  Mary's  con- 
duct fanned  his  slumbering  discontent  into  a  flame.  There  she 
was,  sitting  between  a  fellow  of  All  Souls',  who  was  a  collector 
of  pictures  and  an  authority  in  fine-art  matters,  and  the  Indian 
officer  who  had  been  so  recently  promoted  to  the  degree  of 
D.C.L.  in  the  theatre.  There  she  sat,  so  absorbed  in  their  con- 
versation that  she  did  not  even  hear  a  remark  which  he  was 
pleased  to  address  to  her. 

Whereupon  he  began  to  brood  on  his  wrongs,  and  to  take 
umbrage  at  the  catholicity  of  her  enjoyment  and  enthusiasm. 
So  long  as  he  had  been  the  medium  through  which  she  was 
brought  in  contact  with  others,  he  had  been  well  enough  con- 
tent that  they  should  amuse  and  interest  her ;  but  it  was  a 
very  different  thing  now. 

So  he  watched  her  jealously,  and  raked  up  former  conversa- 
tions, and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
remonstrate  with  her.  He  had  remarked,  too,  that  she  never 
could  talk  with  him  now  without  breaking  away  after  a  short 
time  into  badinage.  Her  badinage  certainly  was  very 
charming  and  pleasant,  and  kept  him  on  the  stretch  ;  but  why 
should  she  not  let  him  be  serious  and  sentimental  when  he 
pleased  ?  She  did  not  break  out  in  this  manner  with  other 
people.  So  he  really  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  speak  to  her  on 
the  subject — not  in  the  least  for  his  own  sake,  but  for  hers. 

Accordingly,  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  they  started  for 
the  fete  at  St.  John's,  he  resolved  to  carry  out  his  intentions. 
At  first  he  could  not  get  an  opportunity  while  they  were  walk- 
ing about  on  the  beautiful  lawn  of  the  great  garden,  seeing  and 
being  seen,  and  listening  to  music,  and  looking  at  choice  flow- 
ers. But  soon  a  chance  offered.  She  stayed  behind  the  rest 
without  noticing  it,  to  examine  some  specially  beautiful  plant, 
and  he  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment,  and  proposed  to  show  her 
the  smaller  garden,  which  lies  beyond,  to  which  she  innocently 
consented ;  and  they  were  soon  out  of  the  crowd,  and  in  com- 
parative solitude. 

She  remarked  that  he  was  somewhat  silent  and  grave, 
but  thought  nothing  of  it,  and  chatted  on  as  usual,  re- 
marking upon  the  pleasant  company  she  had  been  in  at 
luncheon. 

This  opened  the  way  for  Tom's  lecture.. 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS. 

«'  How  easily  you  seem  to  get  interested  with  new  people ! " 
ho  began. 

"Do  I ? "  she  said.  " Well,  don't  you  think  it  very 
natural?" 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  blessing  if  people  would  always  say  just 
what  they  think  and  mean,  though  ? 

"  Yes,  and  a  great  many,  do,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him 
in  some  wonder,  and  not  quite  pleased  with  the  turn  things 
were  taking. 

"  Any  ladies,  do  you  think  ?  You  know  we  haven't  many 
opportunities  of  observing." 

"  Yes,  I  think  quite  as  many  ladies  as  men.  More,  indeed, 
as  far  as  my  small  experience  goes." 

"  You  really  maintain  deliberately  that  you  have  met  peo- 
ple— men  and  women — who  can  talk  to  you  or  any  one  else 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  quite  honestly,  and  say  nothing  at 
all  which  they  don't  mean — nothing  for  the  sake  of  flattery,  oi 
effect,  for  instance?" 

*  Oh,  dear  me  !  yes,  often." 

'Who,  for  example?" 

*  Our  Cousin  Katie.  Why  are  you  so  suspicious  and  mis* 
anthropical  ?  There  is  your  friend  Mr.  Hardy,  again ;  what 
do  you  say  to  him?" 

**  Well,  I  think  you  may  have  hit  on  an  exception.  But  I 
maintain  the  rule." 

"  You  look  as  if  I  ought  to  object.  But  I  sha'n't.  It  is  no 
business  of  mine  if  you  choose  to  believe  any  such  disagreeable 
thing  about  your  fellow-creatures." 

"'  I  don't  believe  anything  worse  about  them  than  I  do  about 
myself.  I  know  that  I  can't  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

"  But  I  don't  think  I  am  any  worse  than  my  neighbors." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  do.     Who  are  your  neighbors  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  include  you  in  the  number  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  if  you  like." 

"  But  I  may  not  mean  that  you  are  like  the  rest.  The  man 
who  fell  among  thieves,  you  know,  had  one  good  neighbor." 

"  Now,  Cousin  Tom,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  sparkling 
eyes,  "  I  can't  return  the  compliment.  You  meant  to  make 
me  feel  that  I  was  like  the  rest — at  least,  like  what  you  say 
they  are.  You  know  you  did.  And  now  you  are  just  turning 
round,  and  trying  to  slip  out  of  it  by  saying  what  you  don't 
mean." 

"  Well,  Cousin  Mary,  perhaps  I  was.  At  any  rate,  I  was  a 
great  fool  for  my  pains.  I  might  have  known  by  this  time 
that  you  would  catch  me  nut  fagt  enough." 


306  TOM  SRO  WN  A T  OXFO  ED. 

tt  Perhaps  you  might.  I  didn't  challenge  you  to  set  up  your 
palace  of  truth.  But,  if  we  are  to  live  in  it,  you  are  not  to  say 
all  the  disagreeable  things  and  hear  none  of  them." 

"  I  hope  not,  if  they  nrist  be  disagreeable.  But  why  should 
they  be  ?  I  can't  see  why  you  and  I,  for  instance,  should  not 
say  exactly  what  we  are  thinking  to  one  another,  without  being 
disagreeable." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  made  a  happy  beginning  just 
now." 

"  But  I  am  sure  we  should  all  like  one  another  the  better  for 
speaking  the  truth." 

**  Yes ;  but  I  don't  admit  that  I  haven't  been  speaking  the 
truth." 

"You  won't  understand  me.  Have  I  said  that  you  don't 
speak  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  said  just  now  that  I  don't  say  what  I  think  and 
mean.  Well,  perhaps  you  didn't  exactly  say  that,  but  that  is 
hat  you  meant." 

"You  are  very  angry,  Cousin  Mary.     Let  us  wait  till — " 

"  No,  no.  It  was  you  who  began,  and  I  will  not  let  you  off 
now." 

"  Very  well,  then.  I  did  mean  something  of  the  sort.  It 
is  better  to  tell  you  than  to  keep  it  to  myself." 

"  Yes,  and  now  tell  me  your  reasons,"  said  Mary,  looking 
down  and  biting  her  lip.  Tom  was  ready  to  bite  his  tongue 
off,  but  there  was  nothing  now  but  to  go  through  with  it. 

"  You  make  everybody  that  comes  near  you  think  that  you 
are  deeply  interested  in  them  and  their  doings.  Poor  Grey 
believes  that  you  are  as  mad  as  he  is  about  rituals  and  rubrics. 
And  the  boating-men  declare  that  you  would  sooner  see  a  race 
than  go  to  the  best  ball  in  the  woi-ld.  And  you  listened  to 
the  dean's  stale  old  stories  about  the  schools,  and  went  into 
Captures  in  the  Bodleian  about  pictures  and  art  with  that  fellow 
of  Allsouls'.  Even  our  old  butler  and  the  cook — " 

Here  Mary,  despite  her  vexation,  after  a  severe  straggle  to 
control  it,  burst  into  a  laugh,  which  made  Tom  pause. 

"  Now  you  can't  say  that  I  am  not  really  fond  of  jellies,"  she 
said. 

"  And  you  can't  say  that  I  have  said  anything  so  very 
disagreeable." 

"  Oh,  but  you  have,  though." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  have  made  you  laugh." 

"  But  you  didn't  mean  to  do  it.     Now,  go  on." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  You  see  my  meaning,  or  yon 
never  will." 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS.  307 

"  If  you  have  nothing  more  to  Bay  you  should  not  have  said 
so  much,"  said  Mary.  "  You  wouldn't  have  me  rude  to  all  the 
people  I  meet,  and.  I  can't  help  it  if  the  cook  thinks  I  am  a 
glutton." 

"But  you  could  help  letting  Grey  think  that  you  should 
like  to  go  and  see  his  night  schools." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  see  them  of  all  things." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  go  through  the  manu- 
scripts in  the  Bodleian  with  the  dean.  I  heard  you  talking  to 
him  as  if  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of  your  heart,  and  making  a 
half  engagement  to  go  with  him  this  afternoon,  when  you  know 
that  you  are  tired  to  death  of  him,  and  so  full  of  other  engage- 
ments that  you  don't  know  where  to  turn." 

Mary  began  to  bite  her  lips  again.  She  felt  half  inclined  to 
cry,  and  half  inclined  to  get  up  and  box  his  ears.  However, 
she  did  neither,  but  looked  up  after  a  moment  or  two,  and 
said, — 

"  Well,  have  you  any  more  unkind  things  to  say  ?  " 

"Unkind,  Mary?" 

"Yes,  they  are  unkind.  How  can  I  enjoy  anything  now 
when  I  shall  know  you  are  watching  me,  and  thinking  all  sorts 
of  harm  of  everything  I  say  and  do.  However,  it  doesn't 
much  matter,  for  we  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"  But  you  will  give  me  credit  at  least  for  meaning  you  well  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  jealous  and  suspicious." 

"You  don't  know  how  you  pain  me  when  you  say  that." 

"  But  I  must  say  what  1  think." 

Mary  set  her  little  mouth,  and  looked  down,  and  began 
tapping  her  boot  with  her  parasol.  There  was  an  awkward 
silence  while  Tom  considered  within  himself  whether  she  was 
not  right,  and  whether  after  all,  his  own  jealousy  had  not  been 
the  cause  of  the  lecture  he  had  been  delivering  much  more 
than  any  unselfish  wish  for  Mary's  improvement. 

"  It  is  your  turn  now,"  he  said  presently,  leaning  forward 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  looking  hard  at  the  gravel. 
"  I  may  have  been  foolishly  jealous,  and  I  thank  you  for  telling 
me  so.  But  you  can  tell  me  a  great  deal  more  if  you  will,  quite 
as  good  for  me  to  hear." 

"  JSTo,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  dare  say  you  are  open  and 
true,  and  have  nothing  to  hide  or  disguise,  not  even  about 
either  of  the  men  we  met  in  the  Long  Walk  on  Sunday." 

He  winced  at  this  random  shaft  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  and 
she  saw  that  it  had  gone  home,  and  repented  the  next  moment. 
The  silence  became  more  and  more  embarrassing.  By  good 
luck,  however,  their  party  suddenly  appeared  strolling  towards 
tkem  from  the  large  garden*. 


308  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  There's  Uncle  Robert  and  Katie,  and  all  of  them.  Let  us  join 
them." 

She  rose  up  and  he  with  her,  and  as  they  walked  towards 
the  rest  he  said  quickly  in  a  low  voice,  "  Will  you  forgive  me 
if  I  have  pained  you  ?  I  was  very  selfish,  and  am  very  sorry." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  we  were  both  very  foolish.  But  we  won't  do  it 
again." 

"  Here  you  are  at  last.  We  have  been  looking  for  you  every- 
where," said  Miss  Winter,  as  they  came  up. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  we  missed  you.  We  came 
straight  from  the  music  tent  to  this  seat,  and  have  not  moved. 
We  knew  you  must  come  by  sooner  or  later." 

"  But  it  is  quite  out  of  the  way.  It  was  quite  by  chance  that 
we  came  round  here." 

"Isn't  Uncle  Robert  tired,  Katie?"  said  Tom;  •'  he  doesn't 
look  well  this  afternoon." 

Katie  instantly  turned  to  her  father,  and  Mr.  Winter  declar- 
ed himself  to  be  much  fatigued.  So  they  wished  their  hospit- 
able entertainers  good-by,  and  Tom  hurried  off  and  got  a  wheel 
chair  for  his  uncle,  and  walked  by  his  eide  to  their  lodgings. 
The  young  ladies  walked  near  the  chair  also,  accompanied  by 
one  or  two  of  their  acquaintance ;  in  fact,  they  could  not  move 
without  an  escort.  But  Tom  never  once  turned  his  head  for  a 
glance  at  what  was  going  on,  and  talked  steadily  on  to  his 
uncle,  that  he  might  not  catch  a  stray  word  of  what  the  rest 
were  saying.  Despite  of  all  which  self-denial,  however,  he  was 
quite  aware  somehow  when  he  made  his  bow  at  the  door  that 
Mary  bad  been  very  silent  all  the  way  home. 

Mr.  Winter  retired  to  his  room  to  lie  down,  and  his  daughter 
and  niece  remained  in  the  sitting-room.  Mary  sat  down  and 
untied  her  bonnet,  but  did  not  burst  into  her  usual  flood  of 
comments  on  the  events  of  the  day.  Miss  Winter  looked  at 
her  and  said, — 

"  You  look  tired,  dear,  and  over-excited." 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  I  am.     I've  had  such  a  quarrel  with  Tom." 

"A  quarrel — you're  not  serious? " 

"  Indeed  I  am,  though.  I  quite  hated  him  for  five  minutes 
at  least." 

"But  what  did  he  do?" 

"  Why  he  taunted  me  with  being  too  civil  to  everybody  and 
it  made  me  so  angry.  He  said  I  pretended  to  take  an  interest 
in  ever  so  many  things,  just  to  please  people,  when  I  didn't 
really  care  about  them.  And  it  isn't  true  now,  Katie ;  is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  dear.  He  never  could  have  said  that.  You  must  have 
misunderstood  him." 


LECTURING  A  LIONESS.  309 

"  There,  I  knew  you  would  say  BO.  And  if  it  were  true, 
I'm  sure  it  isn't  wrong.  When  people  talk  to  you,  it  is  so  easy 
to  seem  pleased  and  interested  in  what  they  are  saying — and 
then  they  like  you,  and  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be  liked.  Now, 
Katie,  do  yon  every  snap  people's  noses  off,  or  tell  them  you 
think  them  very  foolish,  and  that  you  don't  care,  and  that  what 
they  are  saying  is  all  of  no  consequence?" 

"  I,  dear  ?  I  couldn't  do  it  to  save  my  life !  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  sure  you  couldn't.  And  he  may  say  what  he 
will,  but  I'm  quite  sure  he  would  not  have  been  pleased  if  we 
had  not  made  ourselves  pleasant  to  his  friends." 

"  That's  quite  true.  He  has  told  me  himself  half  a  dozen 
times  how  delighted  he  was  to  see  you  so  popular." 

"  And  you,  too,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  lie  is  very  well  pleased  with  me.  But  it  is  you 
who  have  turned  all  the  heads  in  the  college,  Mary.  You  are 
queen  of  St.  Ambrose  beyond  a  doubt  just  now." 

"  No,  no,  Katie ;  not  more  than  you,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  say  yes,  yes,  Mary.  You  will  always  be  ten  times  as 
popular  as  I ;  some  people  have  the  gift  of  it ;  I  wish  I  had. 
But  why  do  you  look  so  grave  again?" 

"Why,  Katie,  don't  you  see  you  are  just  saying  over  again, 
only  in  a  different  way,  what  your  provoking  cousin — I  shall 
call  him  Mr.  Brown,  I  think,  in  future — was  telling  me  for  my 
good  in  St.  John's  Gardens.  You  saw  how  long  we  were  away 
from  you  :  well,  he  was  lecturing  me  all  the  time,  only  think ; 
and  now  you  are  going  to  tell  it  me  all  over  again.  But  go  on, 
dear ;  I  sha'n't  mind  anything  from  you."  * 

She  put  her  arm  round  her  cousin's  waist,  and  looked  up 
playfully  into  her  face.  Miss  Winter  saw  at  once  that  no  great 
harm,  perhaps  some  good,  had  been  done  in  the  passage  of 
arms  between  her  relatives. 

"  You  made  it  all  up,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  before  we  found 
you." 

"Only  just,  though.  He  begged  my  pardon  just  at  last, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  when  VQU  were  quite  close  to  us." 

"  And  you  granted  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  but  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  not  recall  it." 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  be  falling  out  before  long,  you  got 
on  so  fast.  But  he  isn't  quite  so  easy  to  turn  round  your  finger 
as  you  thought,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mary,  laughingly ;  "  you  saw 
how  humble  he  looked  at  last,  and  what  good  order  he  was  in." 

*  Well,  dear,  it's  time  to  think  whether  we  shall  go  out  again." 

"  Let  me  see  ;  there's  the  last  ball.    What  do  you  say?" 


310  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Why,  I'm  afraid  poor  papa  is  too  tired  to  take  us,  and  I 
don't  know  with  whom  we  could  go.  We  ought  to  begin  pack- 
ing, too,  I  think." 

"  Very  well.     Let  us  have  tea  quietly  at  home." 

**  I  will  write  a  note  to  Tom  to  tell  him.  He  has  done  his 
best  for  us,  poor  fellow,  and  we  ought  to  consider  him  a  little." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  ask  him  and  his  friend  Mr.  Hardy  to  tea,  as  it 
is  the  last  night." 

"  If  yov  wish  it,  I  should  be  very  glad ;  they  will  amuse 
papa." 

"  Certainly,  and  then  lie  will  see  that  I  bear  him  no  malice 
And  now  I  will  go  and  just  do  my  hair." 

'"Very  well;  and  we  will  pack  after  they  leave.  How 
Strange  home  will  seem  after  all  this  gayety." 

"  Yes ;  we  seem  to  have  been  here  a  month." 

"  I  do  hope  we  shall  find  all  quiet  at  Englebourn.  I  am 
always  afraid  of  some  trouble  there." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  END  OF  THE  FBESHMAN's  TEAR. 

ON  the  morning  after  Commemoration,  Oxford  was  in  a 
bustle  of  departure.  The  play  had  been  played,  the  long  va- 
cation had  begun,  and  visitors  and  members  seemed  equally 
anxious  to  be  off.  At  the  gates  of  the  colleges  groups  of  men 
in  travelling-dresses  waited  for  the  coaches,  omnibuses,  dog- 
carts, and  all  manner  of  vehicles,  which  were  to  carry  them  to 
the  Great  Western  railway  station,  at  Steventon,  or  elsewhere 
to  all  points  of  the  compass.  Porters  passed  in  and  out  with 
portmanteaus,  gun-cases,  and  baggage  of  all  kinds,  which  they 
piled  outside  the  gates,  or  carried  off  to  the  Mitre  or  the  An- 
gel, under  the  vigorous  and  not  too  courteous  orders  of  the 
owners.  College  servants  flitted  round  the  groups  to  take  last 
instructions,  and,  if  so  might  be,  to  extract  the  balances  of  ex- 
tortionate bills  out  of  their  departing  masters.  Dog-fanciers 
were  there  also,  holding  terriers ;  and  scouts  from  the  cricket- 
ing-grounds,  with  bats  and  pads  under  th(wr  a/nus ;  and  hostlers, 
and  men  from  the  boats,  all  on  the  same  errand  of  getting  the 
last  shilling  out  of  their  patrons — a  facing,  obsequious  crowd 
for  the  most  part,  with  here  and  Ikeic  a  sturdy  Britow  who 
felt  that  he  was  only  come  after  hia  -due. 

Through  such  a  group,  at  the  gav<*  of  St.  Ambrose,  Tom  and 
Hardy  passed  soon  after  breakfast  time,  in  cap  and  gown, 
which  costume  excited  no  small  astonishment.. 

"  Hullo,  Brown,  old  fellow !  ain't  you  off  this  morning  ? 


THE  END  OF  THE  FRESHMAN'S  YEAS.  311 

"  No,  I  shall  be  up  for  a  day  or  two  yet." 

"  Wish  you  joy.  I  wouldn't  be  staying  up  over  to-day  for 
something." 

"  But  you'll  be  at  Henley  to-raorrow  ?  "  said  Diogenes,  con 
fidently,  who  stood  at  the  gate  in  boating  coat  and  flannels, 
a  big  stick  and  knapsack,  waiting  for  a  companion,  with  whom 
he  was  going  to  walk  to  Henley. 

:'  And  at  Lord's  on  Friday,"  said  another.  "  It  will  be  a 
famous  match ;  come  and  dine  somewhere  afterwards,  and  go 
to  the  Haymarket  with  us." 

"  You  know  the  Leander  are  to  be  at  Henley,"  put  in  Dio- 
genes "and  Cambridge  is  very  strong.  There  will  be  a  splen- 
did race  for  the  cup,  but  Jervis  thinks  we  are  all  right." 

"  Bother  your  eternal  races ;  haven't  you  had  enough  of 
them  ? "  said  the  Londoner.  "  You  had  much  better  come  up 
to  the  little  village  at  once,  Brown,  and  stay  there  while  the 
coin  lasts." 

"  If  I  get  away  at  all,  it  will  be  to  Henley,"  said  Tom. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  that,"  said  Diogenes,  triumphantly; 
"our  boat  ought  to  be  on  for  the  ladies'  plate.  If  only  Jervis 
were  not  in  the  University  crew !  I  thought  you  were  to  pull 
at  Henley,  Hardy  ?  " 

"  I  was  asked  to  pull,  but  I  couldn't  manage  the  time  with 
the  schools  coming  on,  and  when  the  examinations  were  over, 
it  was  too  late.  The  crew  were  picked  and  half  trained,  and 
none  of  them  have  broken  down." 

"  What !  every  one  of  them  stood  putting  through  the  sieve  ? 
They  must  be  a  rare  crew,  then,"  said  another. 

"  You're  right,"  said  Diogenes.  "  Oh !  here  you  are  at  last," 
he  added,  as  another  man  in  flannels  and  knapsack  came  out  of 
college.  "  Well,  good-by,  all,  and  a  pleasant  vacation  ;  we 
are  to  be  in  time  to  see  our  crew  pull  over  the  course  to-night ;" 
and  the  two  marched  off  towards  Magdalen  bridge. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  remarked  a  fast  youth,  in  most  elaborate  toil 
lette,  looking  after  them,  "  fancy  two  fellows  grinding  off  to 
Henley,  five  miles  an  hour,  in  this  sun,  when  they  might  drop 
up  to  the  metropolis  by  train  in  half  the  time?  Isn't  it 
marvellous  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  going  with  them,"  said  Tom. 

"Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.     Here's  our  coach." 

"  Good-by,  then ; "  and  Tom  shook  hands,  and  leaving  the 
coach  to  get  packed  with  portmanteaus,  terriers,  and  under, 
graduates,  he  and  Hardy  walked  off  towards  the  High  Street. 

"So  you're  not  going  to-day?"  Hardy  said. 

"  No ,  two  or  three  of  my  old  school-fellows  are  coming  up 


312  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

to  stand  for  scholarships,  and  I  must  be  here  to  receive  them. 
But  it's  very  unlucky ;  I  should  have  liked  so  to  have  been  at 
Henley." 

"  Look,  their  carriage  is  already  at  the  door,"  said  Hardy, 
pointing  up  High  Street,  into  which  they  now  turned.  There 
were  a  dozen  post-chaises  and  carriages  loading  in  front  of  dif- 
ferent houses  in  the  street,  and  amongst  them  Mr.  Winter5! 
old-fashioned  travelling-barouche. 

"So  it  is,"  said  Tom;  "that's  some  of  uncle's  fidgetiness; 
but  he  will  be  sure  to  dawdle  at  the  last.  Come  along  in." 

"Don't  you  think  I  had  better  stay  down-stairs?  It  may 
seem  intrusive." 

"  No  come  along.  Why,  they  asked  you  to  come  and  see 
the  last  of  them  last  night,  didn't  they? 

Hardy  did  not  require  any  further  urging  to  induce  him  to 
follow  his  inclination  ;  so  the  two  went  up  together.  The 
breakfast  things  were  still  on  the  table,  at  which  sat  Miss 
Winter,  in  her  bonnet,  employed  in  examining  the  bill,  with 
the  assistance  of  Mary,  who  leant  over  her  shoulder.  She 
looked  up  as  they  entered. 

"  Oh  I  I'm  so  glad  you  are  come.  Poor  Katie  is  so  bothered, 
and  I  can't  help  her.  Do  look  at  the  bill ;  is  it  all  right  ?" 

"Shall  I,  Katie?" 

"Yes,  please  do.  I  don't  see  anything  to  object  to,  except, 
perhaps,  the  things  I  have  marked.  Do  you  think  we  ought 
to  be  charged  half  a  crown  a  day  for  the  kitchen  fire  ?  " 

"Fire  in  June !  and  you  have  never  dined  at  home  once?" 

"  No,  but  we  have  had  tea  several  times." 

"It  is  a  regular  swindle,"  said  Tom,  taking  the  bill  and  glanc- 
ing at  it.  "Here,  Hardy  come  and  help  me  cut  down  this  pre- 
cious total." 

They  sat  down  to  the  bill,  the  ladies  willingly  giving  place. 
Mary  tripped  off  to  the  glass  to  tie  her  bonnet. 

"  Now  that  is  all  right ! "  she  said,  merrily  ;  "  why  can't  one 
go  on  without  bills  or  horrid  money  ?  " 

"  Ah !  why  can't  one  ?  "  said  Tom,  "  that  would  suit  most  of 
our  complaints.  But  where's  uncle  ?  has  he  seen  the  bill  ?  " 

"  No ;  papa  is  in  his  room ;  he  must  not  be  worried,  or 
the  journey  will  be  too  much  for  him." 

Here  the  ladies'-maid  arrived,  with  a  message  that  her  father 
wished  to  see  Miss  Winter. 

"  Leave  your  money,  Katie,  naid  her  cousin ;  "  this  is  gentle- 
men's business,  and  Tom  and  Mr.  Hardy  will  settle  it  all  for 
us,  I  am  sure." 

Tom  professed  his  entire  willingness  to  accept  the  charge, 


THE  END  OF  THE  FRESHMAN'S  TEAR.  313 

delighted  at  finding  himself  re-instated  in  his  office  of  protector 
at  Mary's  suggestion.  Had  the  landlord  been  one  of  his  own 
tradesmen,  or  the  bill  his  own  bill,  he  might  not  have  been  so 
well  pleased,  but,  as  neither  of  these  was  the  case,  and  he  had 
Hardy  to  back  him,  he  went  into  the  matter  with  much 
vigor  and  discretion,  and  had  the  landlord  up,  made  the  proper 
deductions,  and  got  the  bill  settled  and  receipted  in  a  few 
minutes.  Then  he  and  Hardy  addressed  themselves  to  getting 
the  carriage  comfortably  packed,  and  vied  with  one  another  in 
settling  and  stowing  away  in  the  most  convenient  places  the 
many  tittle  odds  and  ends  which  naturally  accompany  young 
ladies  and  invalids  on  their  travels ;  in  the  course  of  which 
employment  he  managed  to  snatch  a  few  words  here  and  there 
with  Mary,  and  satisfied  himself  that  she  bore  him  no  ill-will 
for  the  events  of  the  previous  day. 

At  last,  all  was  ready  for  the  start,  and  Tom  reported  the 
fact  in  the  sitting-room.  "  Then  I  will  go  and  fetch  papa," 
said  Miss  Winter. 

Tom's  eyes  met  Mai-y's  at  the  moment.  He  gave  a  slight 
shrug  with  his  shoulders,  and  said,  as  the  door  closed  after  his 
cousin,  "  Really  I  have  no  patience  with  Uncle  Robert ;  he 
leaves  poor  Katie  to  do  everything." 

"  Yes  ;  and  how  beautifully  she  does  it  all,  without  a  woid 
or,  I  believe,  a  thought  of  complaint !  I  could  never  be  so 
patient." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  pity.  If  Uncle  Robert  were  obliged  to  exert 
himself  it  would  be  much  better  for  him.  Katie  is  only  spoil- 
ing him  and  wearing  herself  out." 

"  Yes,  it  is  vei-y  easy  for  you  and  me  to  think  and  say  so. 
But  he  is  her  father  ;  and  then  he  is  really  an  invalid.  So 
she  goes  on  devoting  herself  to  him  more  and  more,  and  feels 
she  can  never  do  too  much  for  him." 

**  But  if  she  believed  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  eiert  him- 
self ?  I'm  sure  it  is  the  truth.  Couldn't  you  try  to  persuade 
her  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  it  would  only  worry  her,  and  be  so  cruel.  But 
then  I  am  not  used  to  give  advice,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  looking  demurely  at  her  gloves  ;  "  it  might  do  good 
perhaps,  now,  if  you  were  to  speak  to  her." 

"  You  think  me  so  well  qualified,  I  suppose,  after  the  speci- 
men you  had  yesterday.  Thank  you  ;  I  have  had  enough  of 
lecturing  for  the  present." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  really,  for  what  you  said 
to  me,"  said  Mary,  still  looking  at  her  gloves. 

The  subject  was  a  very  distasteful  one  to  Tom.    He  looked 


BU  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

at  her  for  a  moment,  to  see  whether  she  was  laughing  at  him, 
and  then  broke  it  off  abruptly, — 

"I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  your  visit  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  very  much.     I  shall  think  of  it  all  the  summer." 

"  Where  shall  you  be  all  the  summer  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Not  so  very  far  from  you.  Papa  has  taken  a  house  only 
eight  miles  from  Englebourn,  and  Katie  says  you  live  within  a 
day's  drive  of  them." 

"  And  shall  you  be  there  all  the  vacation  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  we  hope  to  get  Katie  over  often.  Could  not  you 
come  and  meet  her  ?  it  would  be  so  pleasant." 

"  But  do  you  think  I  might  ?  I  don't  know  your  father  or 
mother." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  papa  and  mamma  are  very  kind,  and  will  ask 
anybody  I  like.  Besides,  you  are  a  cousin,  you  know." 

"  Only  up  at  Oxford,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Well,  now  you  will  see.  We  are  going  to  have  a  great 
archery  party  next  month,  and  you  shall  have  an  invitation." 

"Will  you  write  it  for  me  yourself  ?  " 

"Very  likely;  but  why?" 

"  Don't  you  think  I  shall  value  a  note  in  your  hand  more 
than—" 

"  Nonsense ;  now,  remember  your  lecture  —  Oh,  here  are 
Uncle  Robert  and  Katie." 

Mr.  Winter  was  very  gracious,  and  thanked  Tom  for  all  his 
attentions.  He  had  been  very  pleased,  he  said,  to  make  his 
nephew's  acquaintance  again  so  pleasantly,  and  hoped  he  would 
come  and  pass  a  day  or  two  at  Englebourn  in  the  vacation.  In 
bis  sad  state  of  health  he  could  not  do  much  to  entertain  a 
young  man,  but  he  could  procure  him  some  good  fishing  and 
shooting  in  the  neighborhood.  Tom  assured  his  uncle  that 
nothing  would  please  him  so  much  as  a  visit  to  Englebourn. 
Perhaps  the  remembrance  of  the  distance  between  that  parish 
and  the  place  where  Mary  was  to  spend  the  summer  may  have 
added  a  little  to  his  enthusiasm. 

"  I  should  have  liked  also  to  have  thanked  your  friend  for 
his  hospitality,"  Mr.  Winter  went  on.  "I  understood  my 
daughter  to  say  he  was  here." 

"  Yes,  he  was  here  just  now,"  said  Tom ;  "  he  must  6e  below, 
I  think." 

"  What,  that  good  Mr.  Hardy  ?  "  said  Mary,  who  was  looking 
out  of  the  window  ; "  there  he  is  in  the  street.  He  has  just  helped 
Hopkins  into  the  rumble,  and  handed  her  things  to  her  as  if 
she  were  a  duchess.  She  has  been  so  cross  all  the  morning, 
and  now  she  looks  quite  gracious." 


THE  END  OF  THE  FRESHMAN'S  YEAR.  315 

"Then,  I  think,  papa,  we  had  better  start." 

w  Let  me  give  you  an  arm  down-stairs,  uncle,"  said  Tom ;  and 
so  he  helped  his  uncle  down  to  the  can-iage,  the  two  young 
ladies  following  behind,  and  the  landlord  standing,  with  ob- 
sequious bows  at  his  shop  door  as  if  he  had  never  made  an 
overcharge  in  his  life. 

While  Mr.  Winter  was  making  his  acknowledgments  to 
Hardy  and  being  helped  by  him  into  the  most  comfortable  seat 
iu  the  carriage,  Tom  was  making  tender  adieus  to  the  two 
young  ladies  behind,  and  even  succeeded  in  keeping  a  rose-bud 
which  Mary  was  carrying  when  they  took  their  seats.  She 
parted  from  it  half-laughingly,  and  the  post-boy  cracked  his 
whip  and  the  barouche  went  lumbering  along  High  Street. 
Hardy  and  Tom  watched  it  until  it  turned  down  St.  Aldates 
towards  Folly  bridge,  the  latter  waving  his  hand  as  it  disap- 
peared, and  then  they  turned  and  strolled  slowly  away  side  by 
side  in  silence.  The  sight  of  all  the  other  departures  increased 
the  uncomfortable,  unsatisfied  feeling  which  that  of  his  own 
relatives  had  already  produced  in  Tom's  mind. 

"  Well,  it  isn't  lively  stopping  up  here  when  everybody  is 
going,  is  it  ?  What  is  one  to  do  ?  " 

"Oughtn't  you  to  be  looking  after  your  friends  who  are 
coming  up  to  try  for  the  scholarships  ?  " 

"No,  they  won't  be  up  till  the  afternoon  by  coach." 

"Shall  we  go  down  the  river,  then?" 

"No,  it  would  be  miserable.     Hullo,  look  here,  what's  up?" 

The  cause  of  Tom's  astonishment  was  the  appearance  of  the 
usual  procession  of  University  beadles  carrying  silver-headed 
maces,  and  escorting  the  vice-chancellor  towards  St.  Mary's. 

"Why,  the  bells  are  going  for  service;  there  must  be  a 
University  sermon." 

"  Where's  the  congregation  to  come  from  ?  Why,  half  Ox- 
t'ord  is  off  by  this  time,  and  those  that  are  left  won't  want  to 
ibe  hearing  sermons." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  A  good  many  men  seem  to  be  going. 
1  wonder  who  is  to  preach." 

"  I  vote  we  go.     It  will  help  to  pass  the  time." 

Hardy  agreed,  and  they  followed  the  procession  and  went 
up  into  the  gallery  of  St.  Mary's.  There  was  a  very  fair  con- 
gregation in  the  body  of  the  church,  as  the  college  staffs  had 
not  yet  broken  up,  and  even  in  the  gallery  the  undergraduates 
mustered  in  some  force.  The  restless  feeling  which  had 
brought  our  hero  there  seemed  to  have  had  a  like  effect  on 
most  of  the  men  who  were  for  one  reason  or  another  unable 
to  start  on  that  day. 


316  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Tom  looked  steadily  into  his  cap  during  the  bidding  prayers 
and  sat  down  composedly  afterwards ;  expecting  not  to  be 
much  interested  or  benefited,  but  comforted  with  the  assurance 
that  at  any  rate  it  would  be  almost  luncheon  time  before  ho 
would  be  again  thrown  on  his  own  resources.  But  he  was 
mistaken  in  his  expectations,  and  before  the  preacher  had 
been  speaking  for  three  minutes,  was  all  attention.  The 
•ermon  was  upon  the  freedom  of  the  Gospel,  the  power  by 
which  it  bursts  all  bonds  and  lets  the  oppressed  go  free.  Its 
burden  was,  "  Ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall 
make  you  free."  The  preacher  dwelt  on  many  sides  of  these 
words  ;  the  freedom  of  nations,  of  societies,  of  universities,  of 
the  conscience  of  each  individual  man,  were  each  glanced  at 
in  turn  ;  and  then  reminding  his  hearers  of  the  end  of  the 
academical  year,  he  went  on, — 

"  We  have  heard  it  said  in  the  troubles  and  toils  and  temp- 
tations of  the  world,*  '  Oh,  that  I  could  begin  life  over  again ! 
oh,  that  I  could  fall  asleep,  and  wake  up,  twelve,  six,  three 
months  hence,  and  find  my  difficulties  solved ! '  That  which 
We  may  vainly  wish  elsewhere  by  a  happy  Providence  is  fur- 
nished to  us  by  the  natural  divisions  of  meeting  and  parting 
in  this  place.  To  every  one  of  us,  old  and  young,  the  long  vaca- 
tion on  which  we  are  now  entering,  gives  us  a  breathing  space, 
and  time  to  break  the  bonds  which  place  and  circumstance 
have  woven  round  us  during  the  year  that  is  past.  From  all 
our  petty  cares,  and  confusions,  and  intrigues ;  from  the  dust  and 
clatter  of  this  huge  machinery  amidst  which  we  labor  and  toil ; 
from  whatever  cynical  contempt  of  what  is  generous  and  de- 
vout; from  whatever  fanciful  disregard  of  what  is  just  and 
wise ;  from  whatever  gall  and  bitterness  is  secreted  in  our  best 
motives;  from  whatever  bonds  of  unequal  dealing  in  which  we 
have  entangled  ourselves  or  others,  we  are  now  for  a  time  set 
free.  We  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  river  which  shall  for  a  time 
at  least  sweep  them  away  ;  that  ancient  river,  the  river  Kishon, 
the  river  of  fresh  thoughts,  and  fresh  scenes  and  fresh  feelings, 
and  fresh  hopes ;  one  surely  amongst  the  blessed  means  where- 
by God's  free  and  loving  grace  works  out  our  deliverance,  our 
redemption  from  evil,  and  renews  the  strength  of  each  suc- 
ceeding year,  so  that  'we  may  mount  up  again  as  eagles,  may 
run  and  not  be  weary,  may  walk  and  not  faint.' 

*  This  quotation  is  from  the  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Stanley  before 
the  University  on  Act  Sunday,  1859  (publiished  by  J.  H.  Parker,  of 
Oxford).  I  hope  that  the  distinguished  professor  whose  words  they  are 
will  pardon  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  quoting  them.  No  words  of  my 
own  could  have  given  so  vividly  wk*t  I  wanted  to  say. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FRESHMAN'S  TEAR.  317 

"  And,  if  turning  to  the  younger  part  of  my  hearers,  I  may 
still  more  directly  apply  this  general  lesson  to  them.  Is  there 
no  one  who,  in  some  shape  or  other,  does  not  feel  the  bondage 
of  which  I  have  been  speaking?  He  has  something  on  his  con- 
science ;  he  has  something  on  his  mind  ;  extravagance,  sin,  debt, 
falsehood.  Every  morning  in  the  first  few  minutes  after  wak- 
ing, it  is  the  first  thought  that  occurs  to  him ;  he  drives  it 
away  in  the  day ;  he  drives  it  off  by  recklessness,  which  only 
binds  it  more  and  more  closely  round  him.  Is  there  any  one 
who  has  ever  felt,  who  is  at  this  moment  feeling,  this  grievous 
burden?  What  is  the  deliverance  ?  How  shall  he  set  himself 
free  ?  In  what  special  way  does  the  redemption  of  Christ,  the 
free  grace  of  God,  present  itself  to  him  ?  There  is  at  least  one 
way  clear  and  simple.  He  knows  it  better  than  any  one  can 
tell  him.  It  is  those  same  words  which  I  used  with  another 
purpose.  '  The  truth  shall  make  him  free.'  It  is  to  tell  the 
truth  to  his  friend,  to  his  parent  to  any  one,  whosoever  it  be, 
from  whom  he  is  concealing  that  which  he  ought  to  make 
known.  One  word  of  open,  frank  disclosure — one  resolution 
to  act  sincerely  and  honestly  by  himself  and  others — one  my 
of  truth  let  into  that  dark  corner  will  indeed  set  the  whole 
man  free. 

"  Xiiberavi  animam  meam.  '  I  have  delivered  my  soul.'  "What 
a  faithful  expression  is  this  of  the  relief,  the  deliverance  effected 
by  one  strong  effort  of  will  in  one  moment  of  time.  '  I  will 
arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  will  say  unto  him,  Father,  I 
have  sinned  against  Heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more 
worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.'  So  we  heard  the  prodigal's  con- 
fession this  morning.  So  may  the  thought  well  spring  up  in 
the  minds  of  any  who  in  the  course  of  this  last  year  have 
wandered  into  sin,  have  found  themselves  beset  with  evil  habits 
of  wicked  idleness,  of  wretched  self-indulgence.  Now  that 
you  are  indeed  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word  about  to  rise 
and  go  to  your  father,  now  that  you  will  be  able  to  shake  off 
the  bondage  of  bad  companionship,  now  that  the  whole  length 
of  this  long  absence  will  roll  between  you  and  the  past — take  a 
long  breath,  break  off  the  yoke  of  your  sin,  of  your  fault,  of 
your  wrong-doing,  of  your  folly,  of  your  perverseness,  of  your 
pride,  of  your  vanity,  of  your  weakness ;  break  it  off  by  truth, 
break  it  off  by  one  stout  effort,  in  one  steadfast  prayer ;  break 
it  off  by  innocent  and  free  enjoyment ;  break  it  off  by  honest 
work.  Put  your  '  hand  to  the  nail  and  your  right  hand  to  the 
workman's  hammer  : '  strike  through  the  enemy  which  has  en- 
snared you,  pierce  and  strike  him  through  and  through.  How- 
ever powerful  he  seems  *  at  your  feet  he  will  bow,  he  will  fall, 


318  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. . 

lie  will  lie  down ;  at  your  feet  he  will  bow  and  fall,  and  where 
he  bows,  there  will  he  rise  up  no  more.  So  let  all  thine  enemies 
perish,  O  Lord ;  but  let  them  that  love  thee  be  as  the  sun  when 
he  goeth  forth  in  his  might." 

The  twc  friends  separated  themselves  from  the  crowd  in  the 
porch  and  walked  away,  side  by  side,  towards  their  college. 

"  "Well,  that  wasn't  a  bad  move  of  ours.  It  is  worth  some- 
thing to  hear  a  man  preach  that  sort  of  doctrine,"  said  Hardy. 

"  How  does  he  get  to  know  it  all  ?  "  said  Tom,  meditatively. 

"All  what  ?     I  don't  see  your  puzzle  " 

"  Why,  all  sorts  of  things  that  are  in  a  fellow's  mind :  what 
he  thinks  about  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  for  instance." 

"  Pretty  much  like  the  rest  of  us,  I  take  it  :  by  looking  at 
home.  You  don't  suppose  that  University  preachers  are  unlike 
you  and  me." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  Now  do  you  think  he  ever  had  any- 
thing on  his  mind  that  was  always  coming  up  and  plaguing 
him,  and  which  he  never  told  to  anybody  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  should  think  so;  most  of  us  must  have  had." 

"Have  you?" 

"Ay,  often  and  often." 

"And  you  think  his  remedy  the  right  one  ?" 

"  The  only  one.  Make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  the  sting  is 
gone.  There's  plenty  more  to  be  done  afterwards,  of  course ; 
but  there's  no  question  about  step  No.  1." 

"Did  you  ever  owe  a  hundred  pounds  that  you  couldn't 
pay  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  a  sudden  effort ;  and  his  secret  had  hard- 
ly passed  his  lips  before  he  felt  a  relief  which  surprised  himself. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Hardy,  stopping  in  the  street,  "  you 
don't  mean  to  say  you  are  speaking  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  do  though,"  said  Tom,  "  and  it  has  been  on  my  mind 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  Easter  term,  and  has  spoilt  my 
temper  and  everything — that  and  something  else  that  you 
know  of.  You  must  have  seen  me  getting  moi'e  and  more  ill- 
tempered,  I'm  sure.  And  I  have  thought  of  it  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning  and  the  last  thing  at  night,  and  tried  to  drive 
the  thought  away  just  as  he  said  one  did  in  his  sermon.  By 
Jove,  I  thought  he  knew  all  about  it,  for  he  looked  right  at  me 
just  when  he  came  to  that  place." 

"But,  Brown,  how  do  you  mean  you  owe  a  hundred  pounds  ? 
You  haven't  read  much,  certainly ;  but  you  haven't  hunted,  or 
gambled,  or  tailored  much,  or  gone  into  any  other  extravagant 
folly.  You  must  be  dreaming." 

"  Am  I  though  ?  Come  up  to  my  rooms  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it :  I  feel  better  already,  now  I've  let  it  out.  I'll  send 
over  for  your  commons,,and  w.e'11  have  some  lunch." 


THE  LONG  VACATION  LETTER-HAG.  319 

Hardy  followed  bis  friend  in  much  trouble  of  mind,  consider- 
ing in  biinself  whether  with  the  remainder  of  his  savings  he 
could  not  make  up  the  sum  which  Tom  had  named.  Fortu- 
nately for  both  of  them  a  short  calculation  showed  him  that 
he  could  not,  and  he  gave  up  the  idea  of  delivering  his  friend 
in  this  summary  mariner  with  a  sigh.  He  remained  closeted 
with  Tom  for  an  hour,  and  then  came  out,  looking  serious 
still,  but  not  uncomfortable,  and  went  down  to  the  river.  He 
sculled  down  to  Sandford,  bathed  in  the  lasher,  and  returned 
in  time  for  chapel.  He  stayed  outside  afterwards,  and  Tom 
came  up  to  him  and  seized  his  arms. 

"  I've  done  it,  old  fellow,"  he  said  ;  "  look  here  ;  "  and  pro- 
duced a  letter.  Hardy  glanced  at  the  direction,  and  saw  that 
it  was  to  his  father. 

"  Come  along  and  post  it,"  said  Tom,  "  and  then  I  shall  feel 
all  right." 

They  walked  off  quickly  to  the  post-office  and  dropped  the 
letter  into  the  box. 

"  There,"  he  said,  as  it  disappeared,  "  liberawi  animam  meam. 
I  owe  the  preacher  a  good  turn  for  that ;  I've  a  good  mind  to 
write  and  thank  him.  Fancy  the  poor  old  governor's  face  to- 
morrow at  breakfast ! " 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  take  it  easy  enough  now,"  said  Hardy. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  tell  you  I  haven't  felt  so  jolly  this  two 
months.  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  have  done  it  before.  After 
all,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  can  pay  it  myself,  at 
least  as  soon  as  I  am  of  age,  for  I  know  I've  some  money,  a 
legacy  or  something,  coming  to  me  then.  But  that  isn't  what 
I  care  about  now." 

"  I'm  very  glad,  though,  that  you  have  the  money  of  your 
own." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  having  told  it  all  is  the  comfort.  Come 
along,  and  let's  see  whether  those  boys  are  come.  The  Old 
Pig  ought  to  be  in  by  this  time,  and  I  want  them  to  dine  in 
Hall.  It's  only  ten  months  since  I  came  up  on  it  to  matricu- 
late, and  it  seems  twenty  years.  But  I'm  going  to  be  a  boy 
again  for  to-night ;  you'll  see  if  I'm  not." 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THK  LONG  VACATION  LETTEB-BAG. 

June  24,  184—. 

MY  DEAR  TOM, — Your  letter  came  to  hand  this  morning, 
and  it  has  of  course  given  your  mother  and  me  much  pain.  It 
is  not  the  money  that  we  care  about,  but  that  our  son  should 


3<20  TOM  BEO  WN  A T  OXFORD. 

have  deliberately  undertaken,  or  pretended  to  undertake,  what 
he  must  have  known  at  the  time  he  could  not  perform  himself. 

"  I  have  written  to  my  bankers  to  pay  £100  at  once  to  your 
account  at  the  Oxford  Bank.  I  have  also  requested  my  so- 
licitor to  go  over  to  Oxford,  and  he  will  probably  call  on  you 
the  day  after  you  receive  this.  You  say  that  this  person 
who  holds  your  note  of  hand  is  now  in  Oxford.  You  will 
see  him  in  the  presence  of  my  solicitor,  to  whom  you  will 
hand  the  note  when  you  have  recovered  it.  I  shall  consider 
afterwards  what  further  steps  will  have  to  be  taken  in  the 
matter. 

"  You  will  not  be  of  age  for  a  year.  It  will  be  time  enough 
then  to  determine  whether  you  will  repay  the  balance  of  this 
money  out  of  the  legacy  to  which  you  will  be  entitled  under 
your  grandfather's  will.  In  the  mean  time,  I  shall  deduct  at 
the  rate  of  £50  a  year  from  your  allowance,  and  I  shall  hold 
you  bound  in  honor  to  reduce  your  expenditure  by  this 
amount.  You  are  no  longer  a  boy,  and  one  of  the  first  duties 
which  a  man  owes  to  his  friends  and  to  society  is  to  live  within 
his  income. 

"  I  make  this  advance  to  you  on  two  conditions.  First,  that 
you  will  never  again  put  your  hand  to  a  note  or  bill  in  a  trans- 
action of  this  kind.  If  }ou  have  money,  lend  it  or  spend  it. 
You  may  lend  or  spend  foolishly,  but  that  is  not  the  point 
here ;  at  any  rate,  you  are  dealing  with  what  is  your  own. 
But  in  transactions  of  this  kind  you  are  dealing  with  what  is 
not  your  own.  A  gentleman  should  shrink  from  the  possibility 
of  having  to  come  on  others,  even  on  his  own  father,  for  the 
fulfilment  of  his  obligations  as  he  would  from  a  lie.  I  would 
sooner  see  a  son  of  mine  in  his  grave  than  crawling  on  through 
life  a  slave  to  wants  and  habits  which  he  must  gratify  at  other 
people's  expense. 

"  My  second  condition  is,  that  you  put  an  end  to  your  ac- 
quaintance with  these  two  gentlemen  who  have  led  you  into 
this  scrape,  and  have  divided  the  proceeds  of  your  joint  note 
between  them.  They  are  both  your  seniors  in  standing,  you 
say,  and  they  appear  to  be  familiar  with  this  plan  of  raising 
money  at  the  expense  of  other  people.  The  plain  English  word 
for  such  doings  is  swindling.  What  pains  me  most  is  that  you 
should  have  become  intimate  with  young  men  of  this  kind.  I 
am  not  sure  that  it  will  not  by  my  duty  to  lay  the  whole  mat- 
ter before  the  authorities  of  the  college.  You  do  not  mention 
their  names,  and  I  respect  the  feeling  which  has  led  you  not  to 
mention  them.  I  shall  know  them  quite  soon  enough  through 
my  solicitor,  who  will  forward  me  a  copy  of  the  note  of  hand 
and  signatures  in  due  coarse* 


THE  LONG  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  321 

"Your  letter  makes  general  allusion  to  other  matters;  and  I 
gather  from  it  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  Uie  manner  in 
which  you  have  spent  your  first  year  at  Oxford.  I  do  not  ask 
for  specific  confessions,  which  you  seem  inclined  to  offer  mo ; 
in  fact,  I  would  sooner  not  have  them,  unless  there  is  any  other 
matter  in  which  you  want  assistance  or  advice  from  me.  I 
know  from  experience  that  Oxford  is  a  place  full  of  temptation 
of  all  kinds,  offered  to  young  men  at  the  most  critical  time  of 
theit  lives.  Knowing  this,  I  have  deliberately  accepted  the  re- 
spoiisibility  of  sending  you  there,  and  I  do  not  repent  it.  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  your  first  year.  If  you  had 
not  been,  I  should  have  felt  much  more  anxious  about  your  sec- 
ond. Let  bygones  be  bygones  between  you  and  me.  You 
know  where  to  go  for  strength,  and  to  make  confessions  which 
no  human  ear  should  hear,  for  no  human  judgment  can  weigh 
the  cause.  The  secret  places  of  a  man's  heart  are  for  himself 
and  God.  Your  mother  sends  her  love. 

"  I  am,  ever  your  affectionate  father, 

"JOHN  BROWN." 

June  2Gth,  184-. 

"  MY  DEAR  BOY, — I  am  not  sorry  that  you  have  taken  my 
last  letter  as  you  have  done.  It  is  quite  right  to  be  sensitive 
on  these  points,  and  it  will  have  done  you  no  harm  to  have 
fancied  for  forty-eight  hours  that  you  had  in  my  judgment  lost 
caste  as  a  gentleman.  But  now  I  am  very  glad  to  be  able  to 
ease  your  mind  on  this  point.  You  have  done  a  very  foolish 
thing ;  but  it  is  only  the  habit,  and  the  getting  others  to  bind 
themselves,  and  not  the  doing  it  one's  self  for  others,  which  is 
disgraceful.  You  are  going  to  pay  honorably  for  your  folly, 
and  will  owe  me  neither  tbanks  nor  money  in  the  transaction. 
I  have  chosen  my  own  terms  for  repayment,  which  you  have 
accepted,  and  so  the  financial  question  is  disposed  of. 

"  I  have  considered  what  you  say  as  to  your  companions,— 
friends  I  will  not  call  them, — and  will  promise  you  not  to  take 
any  further  steps,  or  to  mention  the  subject  to  any  one.  But 
I  must  insist  on  my  second  condition,  that  you  avoid  all  further 
intimacy  with  them.  I  do  not  mean  that  you  are  to  cut  them, 
or  to  do  anything  that  will  attract  attention.  But,  no  more 
intimacy. 

u  And  now,  my  dear  boy,  as  to  the  rest  of  your  letter.  Mine 
must  indeed  have  failed  to  express  my  meaning.  God  forbid 
that  there  should  not  be  the  most  perfect  confidence  between 
us.  There  is  nothing  which  I  desire  or  value  more.  I  only 
question  whether  special  confessions  will  conduce  to  it.  My 
experience  is  against  them.  _  I  almost  doubt  whether  they  can 


322  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD, 

be  perfectly  honest  between  man  and  man ;  and,  taking  into 
account  the  difference  of  our  ages,  it  seems  to  me  much  more 
likely  that  we  should  misunderstand  one  another.  But  having 
said  this,  I  leave  it  to  you  to  follow  your  own  conscience  in/ 
the  matter.  If  there  is  any  burden  which  I  can  help  you  to 
bear,  it  will  be  my  greatest  pleasure,  as  it  is  my  duty  to  do  it. 
So  now  say  what  you  please,  or  say  no  more.  If  you  speak,  it 
will  be  to  one  who  has  felt  and  remembers  a  young  man's 
trials. 

"  We  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come  home  to-morrow,  or  the 
next  day,  at  latest.  Your  mother  is  longing  to  see  you,  and  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  you  here  for  a  day  or  two  before  the 
assizes,  which  are  held  next  week.  I  should  rather  like  you  to 
accompany  me  to  them,  as  it  will  give  me  the  opportunity  of 
introducing  you  to  my  brother  magistrates  from  other  parts  of 
the  county,  whom  you  are  not  likely  to  meet  elsewhere,  and  it 
is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man  to  know  his  own  county  well. 

"The  cricket  club  is  very  nourishing  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear,  and  they  have  put  off  their  best  matches,  especially  those 
with  the  South  Hants  and  Landsdown,  till  your  return  ;  so 
you  are  in  great  request,  you  see.  I  am  told  that  the  fishing  is 
very  good  this  year,  and  am  promised  several  days  for  you  in 
the  club  water. 

"September  is  a  long  way  off,  but  there  is  nothing  like  being 
beforehand.  I  have  put  your  name  down  for  a  license ;  and  it 
is  time  you  should  have  a  good  gun  of  your  own ;  so  I  have 
ordered  one  for  you  from  a  man  who  has  lately  settled  in  the 
county.  He  was  Purdy's  foreman,  with  whom  I  used  to  build, 
and,  I  can  see,  understands  his  business  thoroughly.  His  locks 
are  as  good  as  any  I  have  ever  seen.  I  have  told  him  to  make 
the  stock  rather  longer,  and  not  quite  so  straight  as  that  of  ray 
old  double  with  which  you  shot  last  year.  I  think  I  i-emember 
you  criticised  my  weapon  on  these  points ;  but  there  will  be 
time  for  you  to  alter  the  details  after  you  get  home,  if  you  dis- 
approve of  my  orders.  It  will  be  more  satisfactory  if  it  is  built 
under  your  own  eye.  If  you  continue  in  the  mind  for  a  month's 
reading  with  your  friend  Mr.  Hardy,  we  will  arrange  it  towards 
the  end  of  the  vacation  ;  but  would  he  not  come  here  ?  From 
what  you  say  we  should  very  much  like  to  know  him.  Pray 
ask  him  from  me  whether  he  will  pass  the  last  month  of  the 
vacation  here  coaching  you.  I  should  like  you  to  be  his  first 
regular  pupil.  Of  course,  this  will  be  my  affair.  And  now 
God  bless  you,  and  come  home  as  soon  as  you  can.  Your 
mother  sends  her  best  love. 

"  Ever  your  most  affectionate 

BROWN.'' 


THE  LON(J  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  323 

"  ENGLEBOUEN  RKCTOET, 
June  28*A,  184-. 

"  DEAREST  MARY, — How  good  of  you  to  write  to  me  so  soon ! 
Your  letter  has  come  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine.  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  worries  already.  Indeed,  as  you  know,  I  could  never 
quite  throw  off  the  fear  of  what  might  be  happening  here,  while 
we  were  enjoying  ourselves  at  Oxford,  and  it  has  all  turned  out 
even  worse  than  I  expected.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  away 
again  in  comfort,  I  think.  And  yet,  if  I  had  been  here,  I  don't 
know  that  I  could  have  done  any  good.  It  is  so  very  sad  that 
poor  papa  is  unable  to  attend  to  his  magistrate's  business,  and 
he  has  been  worse  than  usual,  quite  laid  up  in  fact,  since  our 
return.  There  is  no  other  magistrate — not  even  a  gentleman 
in  the  place,  as  you  know,  except  the  curate,  and  they  will  not 
listen  to  him,  even  if  he  would  interfere  in  their  quarrels.  But 
he  says  he  will  not  meddle  with  secular  matters ;  and,  poor 
man,  1  cannot  blame  him,  for  it  is  very  sad  and  wearing  to  be 
mixed  up  in  it  all. 

"  But  now  I  must  tell  you  all  my  troubles.  You  remember 
the  men  whom  we  saw  mowing  together  just  before  we  went 
to  Oxford.  Betty  Winburn's  son  was  one  of  them,  and  I  am 
afraid  the  rest  are  not  at  all  good  company  for  him.  When 
they  had  finished  papa's  hay,  they  went  to  mow  for  Farmer 
Tester.  You  must  remember  him,  dear,  I  am  sure ;  the  tall,  gaunt 
man,  with  heavy,  thick  lips,  and  a  broken  nose,  and  the  top  ol 
his  head  quite  flat,  as  if  it  had  been  cut  off  a  little  above  his 
eyebrows.  He  is  a  very  miserly  man,  and  a  hard  master ;  at 
least,  all  the  poor  people  tell  me  so,  and  he  looks  cruel.  I  have 
always  been  afraid  of  him,  and  disliked  him,  for  I  remember  as 
a  child  hearing  papa  complain  how  troublesome  he  was  in  the 
vestry;  and  except  old  Simon,  who,  I  believe,  only  does  it  from 
perverseness,  I  have  never  heard  anybody  speak  well  of  him. 

"The  first  day  that  the  men  went  to  mow  for  Farmer  Tester, 
he  gave  them  sour  beer  to  drink.  You  see,  dear,  they  bargain 
to  mow  for  so  much  money  and  their  beer.  They  were  very 
discontented  at  this,  and  they  lost  a  good  deal  of  time  going  to 
complain  to  him  about  it,  and  they  had  high  words. 

*•  The  men  said  that  the  beer  wasn't  fit  for  pigs,  and  the 
farmer  said  it  was  quite  good  enough,  « for  such  as  they,'  and 
if  they  didn't  like  his  beer  they  might  buy  their  own.  In  the 
evening,  too,  he  came  down  and  complained  that  the  mowing 
was  bad,  and  then  there  were  more  high  words,  for  the  men 
are  very  jealous  about  their  work.  However,  they  went  to 
work  as  usual  the  next  morning,  and  all  might  have  gone  off, 
but  in  the  day  Farmer  Tester  found  two  pigs  in  his  turnip-field 


324  TOM  BROWS  AT  OXFORD. 

which  adjoins  the  common,  and  had  them  put  in  the  pound. 
One  of  these  pigs  belonged  to  Betty  Winburn's  son,  and  the 
other  to  one  of  the  men  who  was  mowing  with  him ;  so,  when 
they  came  home  at  night,  they  found  what  had  happened. 

"The  constable  is  our  pound-keeper,  the  little  man  who 
amused  you  so  much  :  he  plays  the  bass-viol  in  church.  When 
he  puts  any  beasts  into  the  pound  he  cuts  a  stick  in  two,  and 
gives  one  piece  to  the  person  who  brings  the  beasts,  and  keeps 
the  other  himself ;  and  the  owner  of  the  beasts  has  to  bring 
the  other  end  of  the  stick  to  him  before  he  can  let  them  out. 
Therefore,  the  owner,  you  see,  must  go  to  the  person  who  has 
pounded  his  beasts,  and  make  a  bai-gain  with  him  for  payment 
of  the  damage  which  has  been  done,  and  so  get  back  the  other 
end  of  the  stick,  which  they  call  the  tally,  to  produce  to  the 
pound-keeper. 

"  Well,  the  men  went  off  to  the  constable's  when  they 
heard  their  pigs  were  pounded,  to  find  who  had  the  tally,  and, 
when  they  found  it  was  Farmer  Tester,  they  went  in  a  body 
to  his  house,  to  remonstrate  with  him,  and  learn  what  he  set 
the  damages  at.  The  farmer  used  dreadful  language  to  them, 
I  hear,  and  said  they  weren't  fit  to  have  pigs,  and  must  pay 
half  a  crown  for  each  pig,  before  they  should  have  the  tally; 
and  the  men  irritated  him  by  telling  him  that  his  fences  were 
a  shame  to  the  parish,  because  he  was  too  stingy  to  have  them 
mended,  and  that  the  pigs  couldn't  have  found  half  a  crown's 
worth  of  turnips  in  the  whole  field,  for  he  never  put  any 
manure  on  it,  except  what  he  could  get  off  the  road,  which 
ought  to  belong  to  the  poor.  At  last  the  farmer  drove  them 
away,  saying  that  he  should  stop  the  money  out  of  the  price  he 
was  to  pay  for  their  mowing. 

"  Then  there  was  very  near  oeing  a  riot  in  the  parish ;  for 
some  of  the  men  are  very  reckless  people,  and  they  went  in  the 
evening,  and  blew  horns,  and  beat  kettles  before  his  house,  til! 
the  constable,  who  has  behaved  very  well,  persuaded  them  to 
go  away. 

"  In  the  morning  one  of  the  pigs  had  been  taken  out  of  the 
pound  ;  not  Betty's  son's,  I  am  glad  to  say,  for  no  doubt  it  was 
very  wrong  of  the  men  to  take  it  out.  The  fanner  was  furi- 
ous, and  went  with  the  constable  in  the  morning  to  find  the 
pig,  but  they  could  hear  nothing  of  it  anywhere.  James  Pope, 
the  man  to  whom  it  belonged,  only  laughed  at  them,  and  said 
that  he  never  could  keep  his  pig  in  himself,  because  it  was 
grandson  to  one  of  the  acting  pigs  that  went  about  to  the 
fairs,  and  all  the  pigs  of  that  family  took  to  climbing  naturally ; 
so  his  pig  must  have  climbed  out  of  the  pound.  This  of  course 


THE  LOJVG  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  325 

was  all  a  story;  tbe  men  had  lifted  the  pig  out  of  the  pound, 
and  then  killed  it,  so  that  the  farmer  might  not  find  it,  and 
sold  the  meat  cheap  all  over  the  parish.  Betty  went  to  the 
farmer  that  morning,  and  paid  the  half-crown,  and  got  her 
son's  pig  out  before  he  came  home ;  but  Farmer  Tester  stopped 
the  other  half-crown  out  of  the  men's  wages,  which  made  mat- 
ters worse  than  ever. 

"  The  day  that  we  were  in  the  theatre  at  Oxford,  Farmer 
Tester  was  away  at  one  of  the  markets.  He  turns  his  big  cat- 
tle out  to  graze  on  the  common,  which  the  poor  people  say  he 
has  no  right  to  do,  and  in  the  afternoon  a  pony  of  his  got  into 
the  allotments,  and  Betty's  son  caught  it,  and  took  it  to  the 
constable,  and  had  it  put  in  the  pound.  The  constable  tried 
to  persuade  him  not  to  do  it,  but  it  was  of  no  use ;  and  so, 
when  Farmer  Tester  came  home,  he  found  that  his  turn  had 
come.  I  am  afraid  that  he  was  not  sober,  for  I  hear  that 
he  behaved  dreadfully  both  to  the  constable  and  to  Betty's 
son,  and  when  he  found  that  he  could  not  frighten  them,  he 
declared  he  would  have  the  law  of  them,  if  it  cost  him  twenty 
pounds.  So  in  the  morning  he  went  to  fetch  his  lawyer, 
and  when  we  got  home  you  can  fancy  what  a  scene  it  was. 

"  You  remember  how  poorly  papa  was  when  you  left  us  at 
Lambourn.  By  the  time  we  got  home  he  was  quite  knocked 
up,  and  so  nervous  that  he  was  fit  for  nothing  except  to  have 
a  quiet  cup  of  tea  in  his  own  room.  I  was  sure,  as  we  drove 
up  the  street,  there  was  something  the  matter.  The  hostler 
was  watching  outside  the  Red  Lion,  and  ran  in  as  soon  as  we 
came  in  sight ;  and,  as  we  passed  the  door,  out  came  Farmer 
Tester,  looking  very  flushed  in  the  face,  and  carrying  his  great 
iron-handled  whip,  and  a  person  with  him,  who  I  found  was 
his  lawyer,  and  they  marched  after  the  carriage.  Then  the 
constable  was  standing  at  his  door,  too,  and  he  came  after  us, 
and  there  was  a  group  of  men  outside  the  rectory  gate.  We 
had  not  been  in  the  house  five  minutes  before  the  servant  came 
in  to  say  that  Farmer  Tester  and  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see 
papa  on  particular  business.  Papa  sent  out  word  he  was  very 
unwell,  and  that  it  was  not  the  proper  time  to  come  on  busi- 
ness ;  he  would  see  them  the  next  day  at  twelve  o'clock.  But 
they  would  not  go  away,  and  then  papa  asked  me  to  go  out 
and  see  them.  You  can  fancy  how  disagreaable  it  was;  and  I 
was  so  angry  with  them  for  coming,  when  they  knew  how 
nervous  papa  is  after  a  journey,  as  well  as  that'  I  could  not 
have  patience  to  persuade  them  to  leave ;  and  so  at  last  they 
made  poor  papa  see  them  after  all.  He  was  lying  on  a  sofa, 
and  quite  unfit  to  cope  with  a  hard,  bad  man  like  Farmer 


326  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Tester,  and  a  fluent,  plausible  lawyer.  They  told  their  story 
all  their  own  way,  and  the  farmer  declared  that  the  man  had 
tempted  the  pony  into  the  allotments  with  corn.  And  the 
lawyer  said  that  the  constable  had  no  right  to  keep  the  pony 
in  the  pound,  and  that  he  was  liable  to  all  sorts  of  punishments. 
They  wanted  papa  to  make  an  order  at  once  for  the  pound  to 
be  opened,  and  I  think  he  would  have  done  so,  but  I  asked 
him  in  a  whisper  to  send  for  the  constable,  and  hear  what  he 
had  to  say.  The  constable  was  waiting  in  the  kitchen,  so  he 
came  in  in  a  minute.  You  can't  think  how  well  he  behaved ; 
I  have  quite  forgiven  him  all  his  obstinacy  about  the  singing. 
lie  told  the  whole  story  about  the  pigs,  and  how  Farmer 
Tester  had  stopped  money  out  of  the  men's  wages.  And  when 
the  lawyer  tried  to  frighten  him,  he  answered  him  quite  boldly, 
that  he  mightn't  know  so  much  about  the  law,  but  he  knew 
what  was  always  the  custom  long  before  his  time  at  Englebonrn 
about  the  pound,  and  if  Farmer  Tester  wanted  his  beast  out, 
he  must  bring  the  tally  like  another  man.  Then  the  lawyer 
appealed  to  papa  about  the  law,  and  said  how  absurd  it  was, 
and  that  if  such  a  custom  were  to  be  upheld,  the  man  who  had 
the  tally  might  charge  £100  for  the  damage.  And  poor  papa 
looked  through  his  law  books,  and  could  find  nothing  about  it 
all ;  and  while  he  was  doing  it  Farmer  Tester  began  to  abuse 
the  constable,  and  said  he  sided  with  all  the  good-for-nothing 
fellows  in  the  parish,  and  that  bad  blood  would  come  of  it. 
But  the  constable  quite  fired  up  at  that,  and  told  him  that  it 
was  such  as  he  who  made  bad  blood  in  the  parish,  and  that 
poor  folks  had  their  rights  as  well  as  their  betters,  and  should 
have  them  while  he  was  constable.  If  he  got  papa's  »rder  to 
open  the  pound  he  supposed  he  must  do  it,  and  'twas  not  for 
him  to  say  what  was  law,  but  Harry  Winburn  had  had  to  get 
the  tally  for  his  pig  from  Farmer  Tester,  and  what  was  fair  for 
one  was  fair  for  all. 

"I  was  afraid  papa  would  have  made  the  order,  but  the 
lawyer  said  something  at  last  which  made  him  take  the  other 
iMde.  So  he  settled  that  the  farmer  should  pay  five  shillings 
for  the  tally,  which  was  what  he  had  taken  from  Betty,  and 
had  stopped  out  of  the  wages,  and  that  was  the  only  order  he 
would  make,  and  the  lawyer  might  do  what  he  pleased  about 
it.  The  constable  seemed  satisfied  with  this,  and  undertook 
to  take  the  money  down  to  Harry  Winburn,  for  Farmer  Tester 
declared  he  would  sooner  let  the  pony  starve  than  go  himself. 
And  so  papa  got  rid  of  them  after  an  hour  and  more  of  this 
talk.  The  lawyer  and  Farmer  Tester  went  away  grumbling 
and  Yery  angry  to  the  Red  Lion.  I  was  very  anxious  to  hear 


THE  LONG  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  327 

how  the  matter  ended ;  BO  I  sent  after  the  constable  to  ask  him 
to  como  back  and  see  me  when  he  had  settled  it  all,  and  about 
nine  o'clock  he  came.  He  had  had  a  very  hard  job  to  get 
Harry  Winburn  to  take  the  money,  and  give  up  the  tally.  The 
men  said  that  if  Farmer  Tester  could  make  them  pay  half  a 
crown  for  a  pig  ia  his  turnips,  which  were  no  bigger  than 
radishes,  he  ought  to  pay  ten  shillings  at  least  for  his  pony 
trampling  down  their  corn,  which  was  half  grown ;  and  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  this  seemed  very  reasonable.  In  the 
end,  however,  the  constable  had  persuaded  them  to  take  the 
money,  and  so  the  pony  was  let  out. 

"  I  told  him  how  pleased  I  was  at  the  way  he  had  behaved, 
but  the  little  man  didn't  seem  quite  satisfied  himself.  He 
should  have  liked  to  have  given  the  lawyer  a  piece  more  of  his 
mind,  he  said,  only  he  was  no  scholar;  *  but  I've  a  got  all  the 
feelin's  of  a  man,  miss,  though  I  med'nt  have  the  ways  o'  bringin* 
on  'em  out.'  You  see  I  am  quite  coming  round  to  your  opinion 
about  him.  But  when  I  said  that  I  hoped  all  the  trouble  was 
over,  he  shook  his  head,  and  he  seems  to  think  that  the  men 
will  not  forget  it,  and  that  some  of  the  wild  ones  will  be  trying 
to  pay  Farmer  Tester  out  in  the  winter  nights,  and  I  could  see 
he  was  very  anxious  about  Harry  Winburn ;  so  I  promised 
him  to  go  and  see  Betty. 

"  I  went  down  to  her  cottage  yesterday,  and  found  her  very 
low,  poor  old  soul,  about  her  son.  She  has  had  a  bad  attack 
again,  and  I  am  afraid  her  heart  is  not  right.  She  will  not 
live  long  if  she  has  much  to  make  her  anxious,  and  how  is  that 
to  be  avoided  ?  For  her  son's  courting  is  all  going  wrong,  she 
can  see,  though  he  will  not  tell  her  anything  about  it ;  but  he 
gets  more  moody  and  restless,  she  says,  and  don't  take  a  pride 
in  anything,  not  even  in  his  flowers  or  his  allotment;  and  he 
takes  to  going  about,  more  and  more  every  day,  with  these 
men,  who  will  be  sure  to  lead  him  into  trouble. 

"  After  I  left  her,  I  walked  np  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  to  see 
whether  the  view  and  the  air  would  not  do  me  good ;  and  it 
did  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  dear,  and  I  thought  of  you, 
and  when  I  should  see  your  bright  face  and  hear  your  happy 
laugh  again.  The  village  looked  so  pretty  and  peaceful,  I 
could  hardly  believe,  while  I  was  up  there,  that  there  were  all 
these  miserable  quarrels  and  heart-burnings  going  on  in  it.  I 
suppose  they  go  on  everywhere,  but  one  can't  help  feeling  as 
if  there  was  something  specially  hard  in  those  which  come 
under  one's  own  eyes,  and  touch  one's  self.  And  then  they 
are  so  frivolous,  and  everything  might  go  on  so  comfortably  if 
people  would  only  be  reasonable.  I  ought  to  have  been  a  man, 


328  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

1  am  sure,  and  then  I  might,  perhaps,  he  able  to  do  more,  and 
should  have  more  influence.  If  poor  papa  were  only  well  and 
strong ! 

"  But,  dear,  I  shall  tire  you  with  all  these  long  histories  and 
complainings.  I  have  run  on  till  I  have  no  room  left  for  any- 
thing else ;  but  you  can't  think  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  me  to 
write  it  all  to  you,  for  I  have  no  one  to  tell  it  to.  I  feel  so 
much  better,  and  more  cheerful  since  I  sat  down  to  write  this. 
You  must  give  my  dear  love  to  uncle  and  aunt,  and  let  me 
hear  from  you  again  whenever  you  have  time.  If  you  could 
come  over  again  and  stay  for  a  few  days  it  would  be  very 
kind  ;  but  I  must  not  press  it,  ns  there  is  nothing  to  attract 
you  here,  only  we  might  talk  over  all  that  we  did  and  saw  at 
Oxford. 

"  Ever,  dearest  Mary,  your  very  affectionate  cousin, 

"  KATIE. 

"  P.S. — I  should  like  to  have  the  pattern  of  the  jacket  you 
wore  the  last  day  at  Oxford.  Could  you  cut  it  out  in  thin 
paper,  and  send  it  in  your  next  ?  " 

July  — ,  1S4-. 

"  MY  DEAR  BBOWN, — I  was  very  glad  to  see  your  hand,  and 
to  hear  such  flourishing  accounts  of  your  vacation  doings.  You 
won't  get  any  like  announcement  out  of  me,  for  cricket  has  not 
yet  come  so  far  west  as  this,  at  least  not  to  settle.  We  have  a 
few  pioneers  and  squatters  in  the  villages ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  nothing  yet  like  matches  between  the  elevens  of  districts. 
Neighbors  we  have  none,  except  the  rector;  so  I  have  plenty 
of  spare  time,  some  of  which  I  feel  greatly  disposed  to  devote 
to  you  ;  and  I  hope  you  won't  find  me  too  tedious  to  read. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  your  father  to  wish  that  you  should  be 
my  first  pupil,  and  to  propose  that  I  should  spend  the  last 
month  of  this  vacation  with  you  in  Berkshire.  But  I  do  not 
like  to  give  up  a  whole  month.  My  father  is  getting  old  and 
infirm,  and  I  can  see  that  it  would  be  a  great  trial  to  him, 
although  he  urges  it,  and  is  always  telling  me  not  to  let  him 
keep  me  at  home.  What  do  you  say  to  meeting  me  half-way? 
I  mean,  that  you  should  come  here  for  half  of  the  time,  and 
then  that  I  should  return  with  you  for  the  last  fortnight  of  the 
vacation.  This  I  could  manage  perfectly. 

"  But  you  cannot  in  any  case  be  my  first  pupil ;  for,  not  to 
mention  that  I  have  been,  as  you  know,  teaching  for  some 
years,  I  have  a  pupil  here  at  this  minute.  You  are  not  likely 
to  guess  who  it  is,  though  you  know  him  well  enough, — per- 
haps I  should  say  too  well, — so,  in  a  word,  it  is  Blake.  I  had 
not  been  at  home  three  days  before  I  got  a  letter  from  him, 


THE  LONG  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  ££3 

asking  me  to  take  him,  and  putting  it  in  such  a  way  that  I 
couldu't  refuse.  I  would  sooner  not  have  had  him,  as  I  had 
already  got  out  of  taking  a  reading  party  with  some  trouble, 
and  felt  inclined  to  enjoy  myself  here  in  dignified  idleness  till 
next  term.  But  what  can  you  do  when  a  man  puts  it  to  you 
as  a  great  personal  favor,  etc.,  etc.  ?  So  I  wrote  to  accept. 
You  may  imagine  my  disgust  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  at  get- 
ting a  letter  from  an  uncle  of  his,  some  official  person  in  Lon- 
don apparently,  treating  the  whole  matter  in  a  business  point 
of  view,  and  me  as  if  I  were  a  training  groom.  He  is  good 
enough  to  suggest  a  stimulant  to  me  in  the  shape  of  extra  pay 
and  his  future  patronage  in  the  event  of  his  nephew's  taking  a 
first  in  Michaelmas  term.  If  I  had  received  this  letter  before, 
I  think  it  would  have  turned  the  scale,  and  I  should  have  re- 
fused. But  the  th'ng  was  done,  and  Blake  isn't  fairly  respon- 
sible for  his  relative's  views.  So  here  he  has  been  for  a 
fortnight.  He  took  a  lodging  in  the  village  at  first ;  but  of 
course  my  dear  old  father's  ideas  of  hospitality  were  shocked 
at  this,  and  here  he  is,  our  inmate. 

**  He  reads  fiercely  by  fits  and  starts.  A  feeling  of  personal 
hatred  against  the  examiners  seems  to  urge  him  on  more  than 
any  other  motive ;  but  this  will  not  be  strong  enough  to  keep 
him  to  regular  work,  and  without  regular  work  he  won't  do, 
notwithstanding  all  his  cleverness,  and  he  is  a  marvellously 
clever  fellow.  So  the  first  thing  I  have  to  do  is  to  get  him 
steadily  to  the  collar,  and  how  to  do  it  is  a  pretty  particular 
puzzle.  For  he  hasn't  a  grain  of  enthusiasm  in  his  composi- 
tion, nor  any  power,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  of  throwing  himself 
into  the  times  and  scenes  of  which  he  is  reading.  The  phil- 
osophy of  Greece  and  the  history  of  Rome  are  matters  of  per- 
fect indifference  to  him — to  be  got  up  by  catch-words  and 
dates  for  examination,  and  nothing  more.  I  don't  think  he 
would  care  a  straw  if  Socrates  had  never  lived,  or  Hannibal 
had  destroyed  Rome.  Thfi  greatest  names  and  deeds  of  the 
Old  World  are  just  so  many  dead  counters  to  him — the  Jewish 
just  as  much  as  the  rest.  I  tried  him  with  the  story  of  the 
attempt  of  Antiochus  Epiphanes  to  conquer  the  Jews,  and  the 
glorious  rising  of  all  that  was  living  in  the  Holy  Laud  under 
the  Maccabees.  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  I  couldn't  get  a  spark  out  of 
him.  He  wouldn't  even  read  the  story,  because  it  is  in  the 
Apocrypha,  and  so,  as  he  said,  the  d— d  examiners  couldn't 
ask  him  anything  about  it  in  the  schools. 

"Then  his  sense  of  duty  is  quite  undeveloped.  He  has  no 
notion  of  going  on  doing  anything  disagreeable  because  he 
ought.  So  here  I  am  at  fault  again.  _  Ambition  he  ha«  in 


330  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

abundance ;  in  fact,  so  strongly,  that  very  likely  it  may  in  the 
end  pull  him  through,  and  make  him  work  hard  enough  for  his 
Oxford  purposes  at  any  rate.  But  it  wants  repressing  rather 
than  encouragement  and  I  certainly  sha'n't  appeal  to  it. 

"You  will  begin  to  think  I  dislike  him  and  want  to  get  rid 
of  him,  but  it  isn't  the  case.  You  know  what  a  good  temper 
he  has,  and  how  remarkably  well  he  talks ;  so  he  makes  him* 
self  very  pleasant,  and  my  father  evidently  enjoys  his  com- 
pany ;  and  then  to  be  in  constant  intercourse  with  a  subtle 
intellect  like  his,  is  pleasantly  exciting,  and  keeps  one  alive 
and  at  high  pressure,  though  one  can't  help  always  wishing 
that  it  had  a  little  heat  in  it.  You  would  be  immensely 
amused  if  you  could  drop  in  on  us. 

"I  think  I  have  told  you,  or  you  must  have  seen  it  for  your- 
self, that  my  father's  principles  are  true  blue,  as  becomes  a 
sailor  of  the  time  of  the  great  war,  while  his  instincts  and 
practice  are  liberal  in  the  extreme.  Our  rector,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  liberal  in  principles,  but  an  aristocrat  of  the  aristo- 
crats in  instinct  and  practice.  They  are  always  ready  enough 
therefore  to  do  battle,  and  Blake  delights  in  the  war,  and  fans 
it  and  takes  part  in  it  as  a  sort  of  free-lance,  laying  little  logi- 
cal pit-falls  for  the  combatants  alternately,  with  that  deferen- 
tial manner  of  his.  He  gets  some  sort  of  intellectual  pleasure, 
I  suppose,  out  of  seeing  where  they  ought  to  tumble  in ;  for 
tumble  in  they  don't,  but  clear  his  pit-falls  in  their  stride, — at 
least  my  father  does, — quite  innocent  of  having  neglected  to 
distribute  his  middle  terra ;  and  the  rector,  if  he  has  some  ink- 
ling of  these  traps,  brushes  them  aside,  and  disdains  to  spend 
powder  on  any  one  but  his  old  adversary  and  friend.  1  em- 
ploy myself  in  trying  to  come  down  ruthlessly  on  Blake  him- 
self;  and  so  we  spend  our  evenings  after  dinner,  which  comes 
off  at  the  primitive  hour  of  five.  We  used  to  dine  at  three, 
but  my  father  has  conformed  now  to  college  hours.  If  the 
rector  does  not  come,  instead  of  argumentative  talk,  we  get 
stories  out  of  my  father.  In  the  mornings  we  bathe  and  boat 
and  read.  So,  you  see,  he  and  I  have  plenty  of  one  another's 
company,  and  it  is  certainly  odd  that  we  get  on  so  well  with  so 
very  few  points  of  sympathy.  But,  luckily,  besides  his  good 
temper  and  cleverness,  he  has  plenty  of  humor.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  we  shall  rub  through  the  two  months  which  he 
is  to  spend  here  without  getting  to  hate  one  another,  though 
there  is  little  chance  of  our  becoming  friends.  Besides  putting 
some  history  and  science  into  him  (scholarship  he  does  not 
need),  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  can  make  him  give  up  his  use  of 
the  pronoun  'you'  before  he  goes.  In  talking  of  the  corn 


THE  LONG  VACATION  LETTER-BAG.  331 

laws,  or  foreign  policy,  or  India,  or  any  other  political  subject, 
however  interesting,  he  never  will  identify  himself  as  an 
Englishman ;  and  lyou  do  this,'  or  ''you  expect  that,'  is  forever 
in  his  mouth,  speaking  of  his  own  countrymen.  I  believe  if 
the  French  were  to  land  to-morrow  on  JPortland,  he  would 
comment  on  our  attempts  to  dislodge  them  as  if  he  had  no 
Concern  with  the  business,  except  as  a  looker-on. 

"You  will  think  all  this  a  rather  slow  return  for  your  jolly 
gossiping  letter,  full  of  cricket,  archery,  fishing,  and  I  know 
not  what  pleasant  goings-on.  But  what  is  one  to  do  ?  one  can 
only  write  about  what  is  one's  subject  of  interest  for  the  time 
being,  and  Blake  stands  in  that  relation  to  me  just  now.  I 
should  prefer  it  otherwise,  but  si  on  rfapas  ce  qu'on  aime  il 
faut  aimer  ce  qtton  a.  I  have  no  incident  to  relate;  these 
parts  get  on  without  incidents  somehow,  and  without  society. 
I  wish  there  were  some,  particularly  ladies'  society.  I  break 
the  tenth  commandment  constantly,  thinking  of  Commemor- 
ation, and  that  you  are  within  a  ride  of  Miss  Winter  and  her 
cousin.  When  you  see  them  next,  pray  present  my  respectful 
compliments.  It  is  a  sort  of  consolation  to  think  that  one  may 
cross  their  fancy  for  a  moment  and  be  remembered  as  part  of 
a  picture  which  gives  them  pleasure.  With  which  piece  of 
sentiment  I  may  as  well  shut  up.  Don't  you  forget  my  mess- 
age now,  and — 

Believe  me,  ever  yours  most  truly, 

"JoHN  HARD* 

"  P.  S.  I  mean  to  speak  to  Blake,  when  I  get  a  chance,  of 
that  wretched  debt  which  you  have  paid,  unless  you  object. 
I  should  think  better  of  him  if  he  seemed  more  uncomfortable 
about  his  affairs.  After  all  he  may  be  more  so  than  I  think, 
for  he  is  very  reserved  on  such  subjects." 

"  ENGLEBOURN"  RECTORY, 

"  July,  184-,. 

"DEAREST  MARY, — I  send  the  coachman  with  this  note,  in 
order  that  you  may  not  be  anxious  about  me.  I  have  just  re- 
turned from  poor  Betty  Winburn's  cottage  to  write  it.  She  is 
very,  very  ill,  and  I  do  not  think  can  last  out  more  than  a  day 
or  two ;  and  she  seems  to  cling  to  me  so  that  I  cannot  have  the 
heart  to  leave  her.  Indeed,  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  do 
it,  I  should  never  get  her  poor,  white  eager  face  out  of  my 
head  all  day,  so  that  I  should  be  very  bad  company  and  quite 
out  of  place  at  your  party,  making  everybody  melancholy  and 
uncomfortable  who  came  near  me.  So,  dear,*!  am  not  comin^. 


332  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOltD. 

Of  course,  it  is  a  great  disappointment.  1  had  set  my  heart  on 
being  with  you,  and  enjoying  it  all  thoroughly ;  and  even  at 
breakfast  this  morning  knew  of  nothing  to  hinder  me.  My 
dress  is  actually  lying  on  the  bed  at  this  minute,  and  it  looks 
very  pretty,  especially  the  jacket  like  yours,  which  I  and  Hop- 
kins have  managed  to  make  up  from  the  pattern  you  sent, 
though  you  forgot  the  sleeves,  which  made  it  rather  hard  to 
do.  Ah,  well !  it  is  of  no  use  to  think  of  how  pleasant  things 
would  have  been  which  one  cannot  have.  You  must  write  me 
an  account  of  how  it  all  went  off,  dear ;  or  perhaps  you  can 
manage  to  get  over  here  before  long  to  tell  me. 

"  I  must  now  go  back  to  poor  Betty.  She  is  such  a  faithful, 
patient  old  thing,  and  has  been  such  a  good  woman  all  her  life 
that  there  is  nothing  painful  in  being  by  her  now,  and  one 
feels  sure  that  it  will  be  much  happier  aud  better  for  her  to  be 
at  rest.  If  she  could  only  feel  comfortable  about  her  son  I  am 
sure  she  would  think  so  herself.  Oh,  1  forgot  to  say  that  her 
attack  was  brought  on  by  the  shock  of  hearing  that  he  had 
been  summoned  for  an  assault.  Farmer  Tester's  son,  a  young 
man  of  about  his  own  age,  has,  it  seems,  been  of  late  waylaying 
Simon's  daughter  and  making  love  to  her.  It  is  so  very  hard 
to  make  out  the  truth  in  matters  of  this  kind.  Hopkins  says 
she  is  a  dressed-up  little  minx  who  runs  after  all  the  young 
men  in  the  parish  ;  but  really,  from  what  I  see  and  hear  from 
other  persons,  I  think  she  is  a  good  girl  enough.  Even  Betty, 
who  looks  on  her  as  the  cause  of  most  of  her  own  trouble,  has 
never  said  a  word  to  make  me  think  that  she  is  at  all  a  light 
person,  or  more  fond  of  admiration  than  any  other  good-look- 
ing girl  in  the  parish. 

"  But  those  Testers  are  a  very  wicked  set.  You  cannot  think 
what  a  misfortune  it  is  in  a  place  like  this  to  have  these  rich 
families  with  estates  of  their  own,  in  which  the  young  men 
begin  to  think  themselves  beyond  the  common  farmers.  They 
ape  the  gentlemen,  and  give  themselves  great  airs,  but  of  course 
no  gentleman  will  associate  with  them,  as  they  are  quits  un- 
educated ;  and  the  consequence  is  that  they  live  a  great  deal 
at  home,  and  give  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  wickedness. 
This  younger  Tester  is  one  of  these.  His  father  is  a  very  bad 
old  man,  and  does  a  great  deal  of  harm  here ;  and  the  son  is 
following  in  his  steps,  and  is  quite  as  bad,  or  worse.  So  you 
see  I  shall  not  easily  believe  that  Harry  Winburn  has  been 
much  in  the  wrong.  However,  all  I  know  of  it  at  jjresent  is 
that  young  Tester  was  beaten  by  Harry  yesterday  evening  in 
the  village  street,  and  that  they  came  to  papa  at  once  for  a 
summons. 


AMUSEMENTS  AT  HAIiTON  MANOR.  333 

"Oh,  here  is  the  coachman  ready  to  start;  so  I  must  con- 
clude, dear,  and  go  back  to  my  patient.     I  shall  often  think  of 
you  during  the  day.     I  am  sure  you  will  have  a   charming 
partv.     With  best  love  to  all,  believe  me,  ever,  dearest, 
'Your  most  affectionate 

"  KATIE. 

"P.  S. — lam  very  glad  that  uncle%  and  aunt  take  to  Tom, 
and  that  he  is  staying  with  you  for  some  days.  You  will  find 
him  very  useful  in  making  the  party  go  off  well,  I  am  sure." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AMUSEMENTS   AT   BARTON   MANOR. 

"  A  LETTER,  miss,  trom  Englebourn,"  said  a  footman,  coming 
up  to  Mary  with  the  note  given  at  the  end  of  the  last  chapter- 
on  a  waiter.  She  took  it  and  tore  it  open ;  and,  while  she  is 
reading  it,  the  reader  may  be  introduced  to  the  place  and  com- 
pany in  which  we  find  her.  The  scene  is  a  large  old-fashion- 
ed square  brick  house,  backed  by  fine  trees,  in  the  tops  of  which 
the  rooks  live,  and  the  jackdaws  and  starlings  in  the  many 
holes  which  time  has  worn  in  the  old  trunks ;  but  they  are  all 
away  on  this  fine  summer  morning,  seeking  their  meal  and  en- 
ioying  themselves  in  the  neighboring  fields.  In  front  of  the 
bouse  is  a  pretty  flower-garden,  separated  by  a  haw-haw  from  a 
large  pasture,  sloping  southwards  gently  down  to  a  brook, 
which  glides  along  through  water-cress  and  willow  beds  to 
join  the  Kennet.  The  beasts  have  all  been  driven  off,  and  on 
the  upper  part  of  the  field,  nearest  the  house,  two  men  are  fix- 
ing up  a  third  pair  of  targets  on  the  rich  short  grass.  A  large 
tent  is  pitched  near  the  archery-ground,  to  hold  quivers  and 
bow-cases,  and  luncheon,  and  to  shelter  lookers-on  from  the 
midday  sun.  Beyond  the  brook  a  pleasant,  well-timbered 
country  lies,  with  high  chalk-downs  for  an  horizon,  ending  in 
Marlborough  hill,  faint  and  blue  in  the  west.  This  is  the 
place  which  Mary's  father  has  taken  for  the  summer  and  au- 
tumn, and  where  she  is  fast  becoming  the  pet  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

It  will  not  perhaps  surprise  readers  to  find  that  our  hero  has 
managed  to  find  his  way  to  Barton  Manor  in  the  second  week 
of  the  vacation,  and,  having  made  the  most  of  his  opportuni- 
ties, is  acknowledged  as  a  cousin  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter. 
Their  boys  are  at  home  for  the  holidays^  and  Mr.  Porter's 


334  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

great  wish  is  that  they  should  get  used  to  the  country  in  their 
summer  holidays.  And  as  they  have  spent  most  of  their  child- 
hood and  boyhood  in  London,  to  which  he  has  been  tied  pretty 
closely  hitherto,  this  is  a  great  opportunity.  The  boys  only 
wanted  a  preceptor,  and  Tom  presented  himself  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, and  soon  became  the  hero  of  Charley  and  Neddy  Porter. 

He  taught  them  to  throw  flies  and  bait  crawfish  nets,  to  bat 
fowl,  and  ferret  for  rabtfifce,  and  to  saddle  and  ride  their  ponies, 
besides  getting  up  games  of  cricket  in  the  spare  evenings, 
which  kept  him  away  from  Mr.  Porter's  dinner-table.  This 
last  piece  of  self-denial,  as  he  considered  it,  quite  won  over 
that  gentleman,  who  agreed  with  his  wife  that  Tom  was  just 
the  sort  of  companion  they  would  like  for  the  boys,  and  so 
the  house  was  thrown  open  to  him. 

The  boys  were  always  clamoring  for  him  when  he  was  away, 
and  making  their  mother  write  off  to  press  him  to  come  again ; 
which  he,  being  a  very  good-natured  young  man,  and  particu- 
larly fond  of  boys,  was  ready  enough  to  do.  So  this  was  the 
third  visit  he  had  paid  in  a  month. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  wondered  a  little  that  he  should  be  so 
very  fond  of  the  young  Porters,  who  were  good  boys  enough, 
but  very  much  like  other  boys  of  thirteen  and  fifteen,  of  whom 
there  were  several  in  the  neighborhood.  He  had  indeed  just 
mentioned  an  elder  sister,  but  so  casually  that  their  attention 
had  not  been  drawn  to  the  fact,  which  had  almost  slipped  out  of 
their  memories.  On  the  other  hand,  Tom  seemed  so  complete- 
ly to  identify  himself  with  the  boys  and  their  pursuits  that  it 
never  occurred  to  their  father  and  mother,  who  were  doating- 
ly  fond  of  them,  that,  after  all,  they  might  not  be  the  only  attrac- 
tion. Mary  seemed  to  take  very  little  notice  of  him,  and  went  on 
with  her  own  pursuits  much  as  usual.  It  was  true  that  she  liked 
keeping  the  score  at  cricket,  and  coming  to  look  at  them  fishing 
or  rabbiting  in  her  walks ;  but  all  that  was  very  natural.  It  is 
a  etvrious  and  merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  that  most 
fathers  and  mothers  seem  never  to  be  capable  of  remembering 
their  own  experience,  and  will  probably  go  on  till  the  end  of 
time  thinking  of  their  sons  of  twenty  and  daughters  of  sixteen 
or  seventeen  as  mere  children,  who  may  be  allowed  to  run 
about  together  as  much  as  they  please.  And,  where  it  is  other- 
wise, the  results  are  not  very  different,  for  there  are  certain 
mysterious  ways  of  holding  intercourse  implanted  in  the  youth 
of  both  sexes,  against  which  no  vigilance  can  avail. 

So  on  this,  her  great  fete  day,  T^ om  had  been  helping  Mary 
all  the  morning  in  dressing  the  rooms  with  flowers,  and  ar« 
ranging  all  the  details — where  people  were  to  sit  at  the  cold 


AMUSEMENTS  AT  BARTON  MANOR.  335 

dinner ;  how  to  find  the  proper  number  of  seats ;  how  the 
dining-room  was  to  be  cleared  in  time  for  dancing  when  the 
dew  began  to  fall.  In  all  which  matters  there  were  many 
obvious  occasions  for  those  petits  soins  which  are  much  valued 
by  persons  in  like  situations ;  and  Tom  was  not  sorry  that  the 
boys  had  voted  the  whole  preparations  a  bore,  and  had  gone 
off  to  the  brook  to  gropple  in  the  bank  for  crawfish  till  the 
cliooting  began.  The  arrival  of  the  note  had  been  the  first 
i  ^nlre-temps  of  the  morning,  and  they  were  now  expecting  guests 
to  arrive  every  minute. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  No  bad  news,  I  hope,"  he  said,  see- 
ing her  vexed  expression. 

"  Why,  Katie  can't  come.  I  declare  I  could  sit  down  and 
cry.  I  sha'n't  enjoy  the  party  a  bit  now,  and  I  wish  it  were 
all  over." 

"  I  am  sure  Katie  would  be  very  unhappy  if  she  thought  you 
were  going  to  spoil  your  day's  pleasure  on  her  account. 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  would ;  but  it  is  so  provoking  when  I  had 
looked  forward  so  to  having  her." 

"  You  have  never  told  me  why  she  cannot  come ;  she  was 
quite  full  of  it  all  when  I  saw  her  a  few  days  back." 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  poor  old  woman  in  the  village  dying  who  is 
a  great  friend  of  Katie's.  Here  is  her  letter ;  let  me  see,"  she 
said,  glancing  over  it  to  see  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  which 
she  did  not  wish  him  to  read,  "  you  may  read  it,  if  you  like." 

Tom  began  reading.  "  Betty  Winbtmi,"  he  said,  when  he 
came  to  the  name,  "what,  poor  dear  old  Betty!  why,  I've 
known  her  ever  since  I  was  born.  She  used  to  live  in  our  par- 
ish, and  I  haven't  seen  ker  this  eight  years  nearly.  And  her 
boy  Harry ;  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  You  will  see  if  you  read  on,"  said  Mary ;  and  so  he  read  .to 
the  end,  and  then  folded  it  up  and  returned  it. 

"  So  poor  old  Betty  is  dying.  Well,  she  was  always  a  good 
soul,  and  very  kind  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  should  like, to 
see  her  once  again,  and  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing for  her  son." 

"  Why  should  we  not  ride  over  to  Englebourn  to-morrow  ? 
They  will  be  glad  to  get  us  out  of  the  way  while  the  housejs 
being  straightened." 

"I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  if  it  can  be  managed."    ; 

"  Oh,  I  will  manage  it  somehow,  for  I  must  go  and  see*that 
dear  Katie.  I  do  feel  so  ashamed  of  myself  when  I  thinkiif  all 
the  good  she  is  doing,  and  I  do  nothing  but  put  flowers  about, 
and  play  the  piano.  Isn't  she  an  angel 

"  Of  course  she  is." 


336  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  won't  have  that  sort  of  matter-of-course  ac- 
quiescence. Now,  do  you  really  mean  that  Katie  is  as  good  as 
an  angel?" 

"As  seriously  as  if  I  saw  the  wings  growing  out  of  her 
shoulders,  and  dewdrops  hanging  on  them." 

"  You  deserve  to  have  some  things  not  at  all  like  wings 
growing  out  of  your  head.  How  is  it  that  you  never  see  when 
I  don't  want  you  to  talk  your  nonsense  ?  " 

"  How  am  I  to  talk  sense  about  angels  ?  I  don't  know  any- 
thing  about  them." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  perfectly.  I  say  that  dear  Katie 
is  an  angel,  and  I  mean  that  I  don't  know  anything  in  her — no, 
not  one  single  thing — which  I  should  like  to  have  changed. 
If  the  angels  are  all  as  good  as  she — " 

"  If!  why  I  shall  begin  to  doubt  your  orthodoxy." 

"  You  don't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  It   doesn't   matter  what   you   were   going  to  say.     You 
couldn't  have  brought  that  sentence  round  to   an    orth 
conclusion.     Oh,  please  don't  look  angry,  now.     Yes,  I  quite 
see  what  you  mean.     You  can  think  of  Katie  just  as  she  is 
now  in  heaven,  without  being  shocked." 

Mary  paused  for  a  moment  before  she  answered,  as  if  she 
were  rather  taken  by  surprise  at  this  way  of  putting  her  mean- 
ing, and  then  said  seriously, — 

"  Indeed,  I  can.  I  think  we  should  all  be  perfectly  happy  if 
we  were  all  as  good  as  she  is." 

"  But  she  is  not  very  happy  herself,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Of  course  not ;  how  can  she  be,  when  all  the  people  about 
her  are  so  troublesome  and  selfish  ?" 

"I  can't  fancy  an  angel  the  least  like  Uncle  Robert;  can 
you?" 

"  I  won't  talk  about  angels  any  more.  You  have  made  me 
feel  quite  as  if  I  had  been  saying  something  wicked." 

"  Now  really,  it  is  too  hai'd  that  you  should  lay  the  blame 
on  me,  when  you  began  the  subject  yourself.  You  ought  at 
least  to  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say  about  angels." 

"  Why,  you  said  you  knew  nothing  about  them  half  a  minute 
ago." 

"  But  I  may  have  my  notions  like  other  people.  You  have 
your  notions.  Katie  is  your  angel." 

"  Well,  then,  what  are  your  notions?  " 

"  Katie  is  rather  too  dark  for  my  idea  of  an  angel.  I  can't 
fancy  a  dark  angel." 

"Why,  how  can  you  call  Katie  dark  ?" 

tt  I  only  say  she  is  too  dark  for  my  idea  of  an  angel." 


AMUSEMENTS  AT  BARTON  MANOR.  337 

«  Well,  go  on." 

*'  Then,  she  is  rather  too  grave." 

"  Too  grave  for  an  angel !  " 

"  For  my  idea  of  an  angel— one  doesn't  want  one's  angel  to 
be  like  one's  self,  and  I  am  so  grave,  you  know." 

"Yes,  very.  Then  your  angel  is  to  be  a  laughing  angel. 
A  laughing  angel,  and  yet  very  sensible ;  never  talking  non- 
sense ?  " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  sny  that." 

"But  you  said  he  wasn't  to  be  like  you." 

"He/  who  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  hefn 

"  Why,  your  angel,  of  course." 

"  My  angel !  You  don't  really  suppose  that  my  angel  is  to 
be  a  man  ? 

"  I  have  no  time  to  think  about  it.  Look,  they  are  putting 
those  targets  quite  crooked.  You  are  responsible  for  the  tar- 
gets ;  we  must  go  and  get  them  straight." 

They  walked  across  the  ground  towards  the  targets,  and  Tom 
settled  them  according  to  his  notions  of  opposites. 

"  After  all,  archery  is  slow  work,"  he  said,  when  the  targets 
were  settled  satisfactorily.  "  I  don't  believe  anybody  really 
enjoys  it." 

"  Now  that  is  because  you  men  haven't  it  all  to  yourselves. 
You  are  jealous  of  any  sort  of  game  in  which  we  can  join.  I 
believe  you  are  afraid  of  being  beaten." 

"  On  the  contrary,  that  is  its  only  recommendation,  that  you 
can  join  in  it." 

"  Well,  I  think  that  ought  to  be  recommendation  enough. 
But  I  believe  it  is  much  harder  than  most  of  your  games.  You 
c?n't  shoot  half  as  well  as  you  play  cricket ;  can  you  ?" 

"  No,  because  I  never  practice.  It  isn't  exciting  to  be  walk- 
ing up  and  down  between  two  targets,  and  doing  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again.  Why,  you  don't  find  it  so  yourself.  You 
hardly  ever  shoot." 

"  Indeed  I  do,  though,  constantly." 

"  Why,  I  have  scarcely  ever  seen  you  shooting." 

"  That  is  because  you  are  away  with  the  boys  all  day." 

"Oh,  I  am  never  too  far  to  know  what  is  going  on.  I'm 
sure  you  have  never  practiced  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  any  day  that  I  have  been  here." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  may  not  have.  But  I  tell  you  I  am  very 
fond  of  it." 

Here  the  two  boys  came  up  from  the  brook,  Neddy  with  his 
Scotch  cap  full  of  crawfish. 

"  Why,  you  wretched  boys,  where  you  been  ?     You  are  not 


338  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

fit  to  be  seen,"  said  Mary,  shaking  the  arrows  at  them,  which 
she  was  carrying  in  her  hand.  "  Go  and  dress  directly,  or  you 
will  be  late.  I  think  I  heard  a  carriage  drive  up  just  now." 

"  Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time.  Look  what  whackers,  Cousin 
Tom,"  said  Charley,  holding  out  one  of  his  prizes  by  its  back 
towards  Tom,  while  the  indignant  crawfish  flapped  its  tail  and 
worked  about  with  its  claws  in  the  hopes  of  getting  hold  of 
•something  to  pinch. 

"  I  don't  believe  those  boys  have  been  dry  for  two  hours  to- 
gether in  daylight  since  you  first  came  here,"  said  Mary  to  Tom. 

"  Well,  and  they're  all  the  better  for  it,  I'm  sure,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes,  that  we  are,"  said  Charley. 

"  I  say,  Charley,"  said  Tom,  "  your  sister  says  she  is  very 
fond  of  snooting." 

" Ay,  and  so  she  is.  And  isn't  she  a  good  shot  too?  I  be- 
lieve she  would  beat  you  at  fifty  yards." 

"There  now,  you  see,  you  need  not  have  been  so  unbeliev- 
ing," said  Mary. 

"  Will  you  give  her  a  shot  at  your  new  hat,  Cousin  Tom  ?  " 
said  Neddy. 

"  Yes,  Neddy,  that  I  will ; "  and  he  added  to  Mary,  "  I  will 
bet  you  a  pair  of  gloves  you  do  not  hit  it  in  three  shots." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mary,  "  at  thirty  yards  ?  " 

"No,  no  !  fifty  yards  was  the  named  distance." 

"No,  fifty  yards  is  too  far.  Why,  your  hat  is  not  bigger 
than  the  gold." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  splitting  the  difference ;  we  will  say 
forty." 

"  Very  well — three  shots  at  forty  yards." 

"Yes  ;  here,  Charley,  run  and  hang  my  hat  on  that  target." 
The  boys  rushed  off  with  the  hat — a  new  white  one — and  hung 
it  with  a  bit  of  string  over  the  centre  of  one  of  the  targets,  and 
then,  stepping  a  little  aside,  stood,  clapping  their  hands,  shout- 
ing to  Mary  to  take  good  aim. 

"  You  must  string  my  bow,"  she  said,  handing  it  to  him  as 
she  buckled  on  her  guard.  "  Now,  do  you  repent  ?  I  am  go- 
ing to  do  my  best,  mind,  if  I  do  shoot." 

"  I  scorn  repentance  ;  do  your  worst,"  said  Tom,  string- 
ing the  bow  and  handing  it  back  to  her.  "  And  now  I  will 
hold  your  arrows  ;  here  is  the  forty  yards." 

Mary  came  to  the  place  where  he  had  stepped,  her  eyes  full 
of  fun  and  mischief  ;  and  he  saw  at  once  that  she  knew  what 
she  was  about  as  she  took  her  position  and  drew  the  first  arrow. 
It  missed  the  hat  by  some  three  inches  only,  and  the  boys 
clapped  and  shouted* 


BEHIND  TUE  SCENES.  339 

w  Tb<TneaFt6  be  pleasant,"  said  Tom,  handing  the  second 
arrow.  "  I  see  you  can  shoot." 

«  Well,  I  will*  let  you  off  still." 

"Gloves  and  all?'1* 

"  No,  of  course  you  must  pay  the  gloves." 

"  Shoot  away  then.  Ah,  that  will  do,"  he  cried  as  the 
second  arrow  struck  considerably  above  the  hat,  "  I  shall  get 
my  gloves  yet,"  and  he  handed  the  third  arrow.  They  were 
too  intent  on  the  business  in  hand  to  observe  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Porter  and  several  guests  were  already  on  the  hand  bridge 
which  crossed  the  haw-haw. 

Mary  drew  her  third  arrow,  paused  a  moment,  loosed  it,  and 
this  time  with  fatal  aim. 

The  boys  rushed  to  the  target,  towards  which  Mary  and  Tom 
also  hurried,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  and  the  new-comers  following 
more  quietly. 

"  Oh,  look  here — what  fun,"  said  Charley,  as  Tom  came  up, 
holding  up  the  hat  spiked  on  the  arrow  which  he  had  drawn 
out  of  the  target. 

"  What  a  wicked  shot,"  he  said,  taking  the  hat  and  turning  to 
Mary.  "  Look  here,  you  have  actually  gone  through  three 
places — through  crown,  and  side,  and  brim." 

Mary  began  to  feel  quite  sorry  at  her  own  success,  and 
looked  at  the  wounded  hat  sorrowfully. 

"Hullo,  look  here — here's  papa  and  mamma  and  some  people, 
and  we  ain't  dressed  !  Come  along,  Neddy,"  and  the  boys 
made  away  towards  the  back  premises,  while  Mary  and  Tom, 
turning  round  found  thmselves  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Porter,  Mr.  Brown,  and  two  or  three  other  guests. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

BEHIND    THE    SCENES. 

ME.  and  Mrs.  Brown  had  a  long  way  to  drive  home  that 
evening,  including  some  eight  miles  of  very  indifferent  chalky 
road  over  the  downs,  which  separate  the  Vale  of  Kennet  from 
the  Vale  of  White  Horse.  Mr.  Brown  was  an  early  man,  and 
careful  of  his  horses,  who  responded  to  his  care  by  being  always 
well  up  to  much  more  work  than  they  were  ever  put  to.  The 
drive  to  Barton  Manor  and  back  in  a  day  was  a  rare  event  in 
their  lives.  Their  master,  taking  this  fact  into  consideration, 
\vas  bent  on  giving  them  plenty  of  time  for  the  return  jour- 
ney, and  had  ordered  his  groom  to  be  ready  to  start  by  eight 
o'clock ;  but,  that  they  might  not  disturb  the  rest  by  their  early 
departure,  he  had  sent  the  carnage  to  the  village  inn  instead 
of  to  the  Porters'  stables.> 


340  TOM  BROWN  AT,  OXFORD. 

At  the  appointed  time,  therefore,  and  when, the  evening's 
amusements  were  just  beginning  at  the  manor  house,  Mr. 
Brown  sought  out  his  wife  ;  and,  after  a  few  words  of  leave- 
taking  to  their  host  and  hostess,  the  two  slipped  quietly  away, 
and  walked  down  the  village.  The  carriage  was  standing  be- 
fore the  inn  all  ready  for  them,  with  the  hostler  and  Mr. 
Brown's  groom  at  the  horses'  heads.  The  carriage  was  a  high 
phaeton  having  a  roomy  front  seat  with  a  hood  to  it,  specially 
devised  by  Mr.  Brown  with  a  view  to  his  wife's  comfort,  and 
that  he  might  with  a  good  conscience  enjoy  at  the  same  time 
the  pleasure  of  her  society  and  of  driving  his  own  horses. 
When  once  in  her  place  Mrs.  Brown  was  as  comfortable  as  she 
would  have  been  in  the  most  luxurious  barouche  with  C  springs, 
but  the  ascent  was  certainly  rather  a  drawback.  The  pleasure 
of  sitting  by  her  husband  and  of  receiving  his  assiduous  help  in 
the  preliminary  climb,  however,  more  than  compensated  to  Mrs. 
Brown  for  this  little  inconvenience. 

Mr.  Brown  helped  her  up  as  usual,  and  arranged  a  plaid 
carefully  over  her  knees,  the  weather  being  too  hot  for  the 
apron.  He  then  proceeded  to  walk  round  the  horses,  patting 
them,  examining  the  bits,  and  making  inquiries  as  to  how  they 
had  fed:  and,  having  satisfied  himself  on  these  points,  and  feed 
the  hostler,  took  the  reins,  seated  himself  by  his  wife,  and 
started  at  a  steady  pace  toward  the  hills  at  the  back  of  Barton 
village. 

For  a  minute  or  two  neither  spoke,  Mr.  Brown  being  en- 
grossed with  his  horses  and  she  with  her  thoughts.  Presently, 
however,  he  turned  to  her,  and,  having  ascertained  that  she 
was  quite  comfortable,  went  on, — 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  them  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  think  they  are  agreeable  people,"  answered  Mrs. 
Brown ;  "  but  one  can  scarcely  judge  from  seeing  them  to-day. 
It  is  too  far  for  a  drive ;  we  shall  not  be  home  till  midnight. 

"But  I  am  very  glad  we  came.  After  all  they  are  conneo 
tions  through  poor  Robert,  and  he  seems  anxious  that  they 
should  start  well  in  the  county.  Why,  he  has  actually  written 
twice,  you  know,  about  our  coming  to-day.  We  must  try  to 
show  them  some  civility." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  come  so  far  often,"  Mrs.  Brown  per- 
sisted. 

"  It  is  too  far  for  ordinary  visiting.  What  do  you  say  to 
asking  them  to  come  and  spend  a  day  or  two  with  us  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown, 
but  without  much  cordiality  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it :  and  it  will  please  Robert  so  much. 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 

We  might  have  him  and  Katie  over  to  meet  them,  don't  you 
think?'" 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  much  more  alacrity, 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  will  have  the  best  bedroom  and  dressing- 
room  ;  Robert  must  have  the  south  room,  and  Katie  the 
chintz.  Yes,  that  will  do  ;  I  can  manage  it  very  well." 

"  And  their  daughter ;  you  have  forgotten  her." 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,  there  is  no  more  room." 

"  Why,  there  is  the  dressing-room,  next  to  the  south  room, 
with  a  bed  in  it.  I'm  sure  nobody  can  want  a  better  room." 

"  You  know,  John,  that  Robert  cannot  sleep  if  there  is  the 
least  noise.  I  could  never  put  any  one  into  his  dressing-room  ; 
there  is  only  a  single  door  between  the  rooms,  and,  even  if  they 
made  no  noise,  the  fancy  that  some  one  was  sleeping  there 
would  keep  him  awake  all  night." 

"Plague  take  his  fancies!  Robert  has  given  way  to  them 
till  he  is  fit  for  nothing.  But  you  can  put  him  in  the  chintz 
room,  and  give  the  two  girls  the  south  bedroom  and  dressing- 
room." 

"  What,  put  Robert  in  a  room  which  looks  north  ?  My  dear 
John,  what  can  you  be  thinking  about?" 

Mr.  Brown  uttered  an  impatient  grunt,  and,  as  a  vent  to  his 
feelings  more  decorous  on  the  whole  than  abusing  his  brother- 
in-law,  drew  his  whip  more  smartly  than  usual  across  the 
backs  of  his  horses.  The  exertion  of  muscle  necessary  to 
reduce  those  astonished  animals  to  their  accustomed  steady 
trot  restored  his  temper,  and  he  returned  to  the  charge, — 

"  I  suppose  we  must  manage  it  on  the  second  floor,  then, 
unless  you  could  get  a  bed  run  up  in  the  school-room." 

"  No,  dear  ;  I  really  should  not  like  to  do  that — it  would  be 
so  very  inconvenient.  We  are  always  wanting  the  room  for 
workwomen  or  servants;  besides,  I  keep  my  account  books 
and  other  things  there." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  on  the  second  floor.  Some  of 
the  children  must  be  moved.  The  girl  seems  a  nice  girl  with 
no  nonsense  about  her,  and  won't  mind  sleeping  up  there.  Or, 
why  not  put  Katie  upstairs  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  should  not  think  of  it.  Katie  is  a  dear  good  girl, 
and  I  will  not  put  any  one  over  her  head." 

"  Nor  I,  dear.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  asking  you  to  put 
her  over  another  person's  head,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  laughing  at 
his  own  joke.  This  unusual  reluctance  on  the  part  of  his  wife 
to  assist  in  carrying  out  any  hospitable  plans  of  his  began  to 
strike  'him  ;  so,  not  being  an  adept  at  concealing  his  thoughts, 
or  gaining  his  point  by  any  attack  except  a  direct  one,  after 


342  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

driving  on  for  a  minute  in  silence  he  turned  suddenly  on  his 
wife,  and  said, — 

"  Why,  Lizzie,  you  seem  not  to  want  to  ask  the  girl." 

"  Well,  John,  I  do  not  see  the  need  of  it  at  all." 

"  No,  and  you  don't  want  to  ask  her." 

*'  If  you  must  know,  then,  I  do  not." 

"Don't  you  like  her?" 

"  I  do  not  know  her  well  enough  either  to  like  or  dislike." 

"  Then,  why  not  ask  her,  and  see  what  she  is  like  ?  But  the 
truth  is,  Lizzie,  you  have  taken  a  prejudice  against  her." 

"  Well,  John,  I  think  she  is  a  thoughtless  girl,  and  extrava- 
gant ;  not  the  sort  of  girl,  in  fact,  that  I  should  wish  to  be  much 
here." 

"  Thoughtless  and  extravagant !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking 
grave ;  "  how  you  women  can  be  so  sharp  on  one  another ! 
Her  dress  seemed  to  me  simple  and  pretty,  and  her  manners 
very  lady-like  and  pleasing." 

"  You  seem  to  have  quite  forgotten  about  Tom's  hat,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Tom's  white  hat — so  I  had,"  said  Mr.  Bi-own,  and  he  re- 
lapsed into  a  low  laugh  at  the  remembrance  of  the  scene.  "  I 
call  that  his  extravagance,  and  not  hers." 

"  It  was  a  new  hat,  and  a  very  expensive  one,  which  he  had 
bought  for  the  vacation,  and  it  is  quite  spoilt." 

"  Well,  my  dear ;  really,  if  Tom  will  let  girls  shoot  at  his 
hats,  he  must  take  the  consequences.  He  must  wear  it  with 
the  holes,  or  buy  another." 

"  How  can  he  afford  another,  John  ?  You  know  how  poor 
»»e  is." 

Mr.  Brown  drove  on  for  several  minutes  without  speaking. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  what  his  wife  was  coming  to  now,  and, 
after  weighing  in  his  mind  the  alternatives  of  accepting  battle 
or  making  sail  and  changing  the  subject  altogether,  said, — 

"You  know,  my  dear,  he  has  brought  it  on  himself.  4 
headlong,  generous  sort  of  youngster,  like  Tom,  must  be  taught 
early  that  he  can't  have  his  cake  and  eat  his  cake.  If  he  likes 
to  lend  his  money,  he  must  find  out  that  he  hasn't  it  to  spend." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  quite  agree  with  you.  But  £50  a  year  is  a 
great  deal  to  mrke  him  pay." 

"  Not  a  bit  too  much,  Lizzie.  His  allowance  is  quite 
enough  without  it  to  keep  him  like  a  gentleman.  Besides, 
after  all,  he  gets  it  in  meal  or  in  malt ;  I  have  just  paid  £25 
for  his  gun." 

"  I  know  how  kind  and  liberal  you  are  to  him  ;  only  I  am  so 
afraid  of  his  getting  into  debt." 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES.  343 

"I  wonder  what  men  would  do,  if  they  hadn't  some  soft- 
hearted woman  always  ready  to  take  their  parts  and  pull  them 
out  of  scrapes,"  said  Mr.  Brown.  "  Well,  dear,  how  much  do 
you  want  to  give  the  boy  ?  " 

"Twenty -five  pounds,  just  for  this  year.  But  out  of  my 
own  allowance,  John." 

"  Nonsense !  "  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  you  want  your  allow- 
ance for  yourself  and  the  children. 

"  Indeed,  dear  John,  I  would  sooner  not  do  it  at  all  then,  if 
I  may  not  do  it  out  of  my  own  money." 

"  Well,  have  it  your  own  way.  I  believe  you  would  always 
look  well  dressed,  if  you  never  bought  another  gown.  Then, 
to  go  back  to  what  we  were  talking  about  just  now — you  will 
find  a  room  for  the  girl,  somehow  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear,  certainly,  as  I  see  you  are  bent  on  it." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  scarcely  civil  not  to  ask  her,  especially 
if  Katie  comes.  And  I  own  I  think  her  very  pretty,  and  have 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  her." 

"  Isn't  it  odd  that  Tom  should  never  have  said  anything 
about  her  to  us  ?  He  has  talked  of  all  the  rest,  till  I  knew 
them  quite  well  before  I  went  there." 

"  No ;  it  seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  dear,  very  natural.  But  I  can't  help  wishing  he  had 
talked  about  her  more ;  I  should  think  it  less  dangerous." 

"  Oh,  you  think  Master  Tom  is  in  love  with  her,  eh  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Brown,  laughing. 

"More  unlikely  things  have  happened.  You  take  it  very 
easily,  John." 

"Well,  we  have  all  been  boys  and  girls,  Lizzie.  The  world 
hasn't  altered  much,  I  suppose,  since  I  used  to  get  up  at  five 
on  winter  mornings,  to  ride  some  twenty  miles  to  cover,  on 
the  chance  of  meeting  a  young  lady  on  a  gray  pony.  I  re- 
member how  my  poor  dear  old  father  used  to  wonder  at  it, 
when  our  hounds  met  close  by,  in  a  better  country.  I'm 
afraid  I  forgot  to  tell  him  what  a  pretty  creature  'Gipsey' 
was,  and  how  well  she  was  ridden." 

"  But  Tom  is  only  twenty,  and  he  must  go  into  a  profession.*' 

"  Yes,  yes ;  much  too  young,  I  know — too  young  for  any 
thing  serious.  We  had  better  see  them  together,  and  then,  if 
there  is  anything  in  it,  we  can  keep  them  apart.  There  cannot 
be  much  the  mattw  yet." 

"  Well,  dear,  if  you  are  satisfied,  I  am  sure  I  am." 

And  so  the  conversation  turned  on  other  subjects,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Brown  enjoyed  their  moonlight  drive  home  through 
the  delicious  summer  night,  and  were  quite  sorry  when  the 


344  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

groom  got  down  from  the  hind-seat  to  open  their  own  gates  at 
half-past  twelve. 

About  the  same  time,  the  festivities  at  Barton  Manor  were 
coming  to  a  close.  There  had  been  cold  dinner  in  the  tent  at 
six,  after  the  great  match  of  the  day ;  and,  after  dinner,  the 
announcement  of  the  scores,  and  the  distribution  of  prizes  to 
the  winners.  A  certain  amount  of  toasts  and  speechifyinsr 
followed,  which  the  ladies  sat  through  with  the  most  exemplary 
appearance  of  being  amused.  When  their  healths  had  beei; 
proposed  and  acknowledged,  they  retired,  and  were  soon  fol 
lowed  by  the  younger  portion  of  the  male  sex ;  and,  while  the 
J.  P.'saud  clergymen  sat  quietly  at  their  wine,  which  Mr.  POP 
ter  took  care  should  be  remarkably  good,  and  their  wives  went 
in  to  look  over  the  house  and  have  tea,  their  sons  and  daugh' 
ters  split  up  into  groups,  and  some  shot  handicaps,  and  some 
walked  abeut  and  flirted,  and  some  played  at  bowls  or  lawn 
billiards.  And  soon  the  band  appeared  again  from  the  servant'? 
hall,  mightily  refreshed,  and  dancing  began  on  the  grass,  and 
in  due  time  was  transferred  to  the  tent,  when  the  grass  got 
damp  with  the  night  dew,  and  then  to  the  hall  of  the  house, 
when  the  lighting  of  the  tent  began  to  fail.  And  then  there 
came  a  supper,  extemporized  out  of  the  remains  of  the  dinner; 
after  which  papas  and  mammas  began  to  look  at  their  watches, 
and  remonstrate  with  daughters,  coming  up  with  sparking  eyes 
and  hair  a  little  shaken  out  of  place,  and  pleading  for  "just 
one  more  dance."  "  You  have  been  going  on  ever  since  one 
o'clock,"  remonstrated  the  parents  ;  "And  are  ready  to  go  on 
till  one  the  next  day,"  replied  the  children.  By  degrees,  how- 
ever, the  frequent  sound  of  wheels  were  heard,  and  the  dancers 
fot  thinner  and  thinner,  till,  for  the  last  half-hour,  some  half- 
ozen  couples  of  young  people  danced  an  interminable  reel, 
while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter,  and  a  few  of  the  most  good-natured 
matrons  of  the  neighborhood  looked  on.  Soon  after  midnight 
the  band  struck ;  no  amount  of  negus  could  get  anything  more 
out  of  them  but  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  which  they  accord- 
ingly played  and  departed  ;  and  then  came  the  final  cloaking 
and  driving  off  of  the  last  guests.  Tom  and  Mary  saw  the  last 
of  them  into  their  carriage  at  the  hall-door,  and  lingered  a 
moment  in  the  porch. 

"  What  a  lovely  night !  "  said  Mary.     "How  I  hate  going  to 
bed!" 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  bore,"  answered  Tom ;  "  but  here  is  the 
butler  waiting  to  shut  up ;  we  must  go  in." 

"  I  wonder  where  papa  and  mamma  are." 

"  Oh,  they  are  only  seeing  things  put  a  little  to  rights.    Let 


BEHIND  THE  SCENES.  345 

us  sit  here  till  they  come  ;  they  must  pass  by  to  get  to  their 


rooms." 


So  the  two  sat  down  on  some  hall  chairs. 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  it  were  all  coming  over  again  to-morrow," 
said  Tom,  leaning  back,  and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling.  "  By 
the  way,  remember  I  owe  you  a  pair  of  gloves :  what  color 
shall  they  be?" 

"  Any  color  you  like.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  I  felt  so 
dreadfully  ashamed  when  they  all  came  up,  and  your  mother 
looked  so  grave  ;  I  am  sure  she  was  very  angry." 

"  Poor  mother,  she  was  thinking  of  my  hat  with  three  ar- 
row holes  in  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sorry,  because  I  wanted  them  to  like  me." 

"  And  so  they  will ;  I  should  like  to  know  who  can  help  it." 

"  Now,  I  won't  have  any  of  your  nonsensical  compliments. 
Do  you  think  they  enjoyed  the  day?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  they  did.  My  father  said  he  had  never 
liked  an  archery  meeting  so  much." 

"  But  they  went  away  so  early." 

"  They  had  a  very  long  drive,  you  know.  Let  me  see,"  he 
said,  feeling  in  his  breast-pocket,  "  mother  left  me  a  note,  and 
I  have  never  looked  at  it  till  now."  He  took  a  slip  of  paper 
out  and  read  it,  and  his  face  fell. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Mary,  leaning  forward. 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  only  I  must  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"  There,  I  was  sure  she  was  angry." 

"  No,  no ;  it  was  written  this  morning  before  she  came  here. 
I  can  tell  by  the  paper." 

"  But  she  will  not  let  you  stay  here  a  day,  you  see." 

"  I  have  been  here  a  good  deal,  considering  all  things.  I 
should  like  never  to  go  away." 

"  Perhaps  papa  might  find  a  place  for  you,  if  you  asked  him. 
Which  should  you  like, — to  be  tutor  to  the  boys,  or  gamekeep- 
er?" 

"On  the  whole,  I  should  prefer  the  tutorship  at  present ; 
you  take  so  much  interest  in  the  boys." 

"  Yes,  because  they  have  no  one  to  look  after  them  now  in 
the  holidays.  But,  when  you  come  as  tutor,  I  shall  wash  my 
bands  of  them." 

"  Then  I  shall  decline  the  situation." 

"  How  are  you  going  home  to-morrow  ?  " 

"I  shall  ride  round  by  Englebourn.  They  wish  me  to  go 
round  and  see  Katie  and  Uncle  Robert.  You  talked  about  rid- 
ing over  there  yourself  this  morning." 


346  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  I  should  like  it  so  much.  But  how  can  we  manage  it  ?  I 
can't  ride  back  by  myself." 

"  Couldn't  you  stay  and  sleep  there  ?  " 

"  I  will  ask  mamma.  No,  I  am  afraid  it  can  hardly  be  man- 
aged ;  "  and  so  saying,  Mary  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and  began 
to  pull  to  pieces  some  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Don't  pull  them  to  pieces ;  give  them  to  me,"  said  Tom. 
"  I  have  kept  the  rosebud  you  gave  me  at  Oxford,  folded  up  in" 

"  Which  you  took,  you  mean  to  say.  No,  I  won't  give  you 
any  of  them — or,  let  me  see — yes,  here  is  a  sprig  of  lavender ; 
you  may  have  that." 

"  Thank  you.     But  why  lavender  ?  " 

"  Lavender  stands  for  sincerity.  It  will  remind  you  of  the 
lecture  you  gave  me." 

"  I  wish  you  would  forget  that.  But  you  know  what  flowers 
mean,  then  ?  Do  give  me  a  lecture :  you  owe  me  one.  What 
do  those  flowers  mean  which  you  will  not  give  me, — the  piece 
of  heather,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Heather  signifies  constancy." 

"  And  the  carnations  ?  " 

"  Jealousy." 

"  And  the  heliotrope  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  heliotrope." 

"But  it  is  such  a  favorite  of  mine.  Do  tell  me  what  it 
means  ?" 

"Je  vous  aime"  said  Mary,  with  a  laugh,  and  a  slight  blush ; 
"  it  is  all  nonsense.  Oh,  here's  mamma  at  last,"  and  she  jumped 
up  and  went  to  meet  her  mother,  who  came  out  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, candle  in  hand. 

"  My  dear  Mary,  I  thought  you  were  gone  to  bed,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  seriously. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  the  least  tired,  and  I  couldn't  go  without 
wishing  you  and  papa  good-night,  and  thanking  you  for  all  the 
trouble  you  have  taken." 

"  Indeed,  we  ought  all  to  thank  you,"  said  Tom  ;  "  everybody 
said  it  was  the  pleasantest  party  they  had  ever  been  at." 

"  I  am  very  glad  it  went  off  well,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  gravely ; 
"  and  now,  Mary,  you  must  go  to  bed." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Tom. 

"  Yes ;  Mrs.  Brown  said  they  expect  you  at  home  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  to  ride  round  by  Uncle  Robert's ;  would  you  like  one 
of  the  boys  to  go  with  me? " 

'•O  dear  mamma,  could  not  Charley  and  I  ride  over  to  En- 
glebourn  ?  I  do  so  long  to  see  Katie." 


THE  CRISIS.  347 

"No,  dear  ;  it  is  much  too  far  for  you.  We  will  drive  over 
in  a  few  days'  time." 

And,  so  saying,  Mrs.  Porter  wished  Tom  good-night,  and  led 
off  her  daughter. 

Tom  went  slowly  up-stairs  to  his  room,  and,  after  packing 
his  portmanteau  for  the  carrier  to  take  in  the  morning,  threw 
up  his  window  and  leant  out  into  the  night,  and  watched  the 
light  clouds  swimming  over  the  moon,  and  the  silver  mist 
folding  the  water  meadows  and  willows  in  its  soft,  cool  mantle. 
His  thoughts  were  such  as  will  occur  to  any  reader  who  has 
passed  the  witching  age  of  twenty ;  and  the  scent  of  the  helio- 
trope-bed, in  the  flower-garden  below,  seemed  to  rise  very 
strongly  on  the  night  air. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A   CRISIS. 

IN  the  forenoon  of  the  following  day  Tom  rode  slowly  along 
the  street  of  Englebourn  towards  the  rectory  gate.  He  had 
left  Barton  soon  after  breakfast,  without  having  been  able  to 
exchange  a  word  with  Mary  except  in  the  presence  of  her 
mother,  and  yet  he  had  felt  more  anxious  than  ever  before  at 
least  to  say  good-by  to  her  without  witnesses.  With  this  view 
he  had  been  up  early,  and  had  whistled  a  tune  in  the  hall,  and 
held  a  loud  conversation  with  the  boys,  who  appeared  half- 
dressed  in  the  gallery  above,  while  he  brushed  the  dilapidated 
white  hat,  to  let  all  whom  it  might  concern  know  that  he  was 
on  the  move.  Then  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  garden  in 
full  view  of  the  windows  till  the  bell  rang  for  prayers.  He  was 
in  the  breakfast-room  before  the  bell  had  done  ringing,  and  Mrs. 
Porter,  followed  by  her  daughter,  entered  at  the  same  moment. 
He  could  not  help  fancying  that  the  conversation  at  breakfast 
was  a  little  constrained,  and  particularly  remarked  that  nothing 
was  said  by  the  heads  of  the  family  when  the  boys  vociferously 
bewailed  his  approaching  departure,  and  tried  to  get  him  to 
name  some  day  for  his  return  before  their  holidays  ended.  In- 
stead of  encouraging  the  idea,  Mrs.  Porter  reminded  Neddy 
and  Charley  that  they  had  only  ten  days  more,  and  had  not  yet 
looked  at  the  work  they  had  to  do  for  their  tutor  in  the  holi- 
days. Immediately  after  breakfast  Mrs.  Porter  wished  him 
good-by  herself  very  kindly,  but  (he  could  not  help  thinking) 
without  that  air  of  near  relationship  which  he  had  flattered 
himself  was  well  established  between  himself  and  all  the 
members  of  the  Porter  family ;  and  then  she  had  added,  "  Now, 
Mary,  you  must  say  good-by ;  I  want  you  to  come  and  help  me 


348  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

with  some  work  this  morning."  He  had  scarcely  looked  at  her 
all  the  morning,  and  now  one  shake  of  the  hand  and  she  was 
spirited  away  in  a  moment,  and  he  was  left  standing,  dissatisfied 
and  uncomfortable,  with  a  sense  of  incompleteness  in  his  mind, 
and  as  if  he  had  had  a  thread  in  his  life  suddenly  broken  off 
which  he  could  not  tell  how  to  get  joined  again. 

However,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  off.  He  had 
no  excuse  for  delay,  and  had  a  long  ride  before  him  ;  so  he  and 
the  boys  went  round  to  the  stable.  On  their  passage  through 
the  garden  the  idea  of  picking  a  nosegay  and  sending  it  to  her 
by  one  of  the  boys  came  into  his  head.  He  gathered  the  flowers, 
but  then  thought  better  of  it  and  threw  them  away.  What 
right,  after  all,  had  he  to  be  sending  flowers  to  her — above  all, 
flowers  to  which  they  had  attached  a  meaning,  jokingly  it  was 
true,  but  still  a  meaning  ?  No,  he  had  no  right  to  do  it ;  it 
would  not  be  fair  to  her,  or  her  father  and  mother,  after  the 
kind  way,  in  which  they  had  all  received  him.  So  he  threw 
away  the  flowers,  and  mounted  and  rode  off,  watched  by  the 
boys,  who  waved  their  straw  hats  as  he  looked  back  just  before 
coming  to  a  turn  in  the  road  which  would  take  him  out  of  sight 
of  the  Manor  House.  He  rode  along  at  a  foot's  pace  for  some 
time,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  past  week  ;  and  then, 
beginning  to  feel  purposeless,  and  somewhat  melancholy,  urged 
bis  horse  into  a  smart  trot  along  the  waste  land  which  skirted 
the  road.  But,  go  what  pace  he  would,  it  mattered  not :  he 
could  not  leave  his  thoughts  behind.  So  he  pulled  up  again 
after  a  mile  or  so,  slackened  his  reins,  and,  leaving  his  horse  to 
pick  his  own  way  along  the  road,  betook  himself  to  the  serious 
consideration  of  his  position. 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  discontented  he  became, 
and  the  day  clouded  over  as  if  to  suit  his  temper.  He  felt  as 
if  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours  he  had  been  somehow  un- 
warrantably interfered  with.  His  mother  and  Mrs.  Porter  had 
both  been  planning  something  about  him,  he  felt  sure.  If  they 
had  anything  to  say,  why  couldn't  they  say  it  out  to  him  ?  But 
what  could  there  be  to  say  ?  Couldn't  he  and  Mary  be  trusted 
together  without  making  fools  of  themselves  ?  He  did  not 
stop  to  analyze  his  feelings  towards  her,  or  to  consider  whether 
it  was  very  prudent  or  desirable  for  her  that  they  should  be 
thrown  so  constantly  and  unreservedly  together.  He  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  what  he  chose  to  consider  his  own  wrongs 
for  any  such  consideration.  "  Why  can't  they  let  me  alone  f " 
was  the  question  which  he  asked  himself  perpetually,  and  it 
•eemod  to  him  the  most  reasonable  one  in  the  world,  and  that 
fto  satisfactory  answer  was  possible  to  it,  except  that  he  ought 


THE  CRISIS.  349 

to  be,  and  should  be,  let  ulone.  And  so  at  last  he  rode  along 
Engk'bourn  Street,  convinced  that  what  he  had  to  do  before 
all  other  things  just  now  was  to  assert  himself  properly,  and 
show  every  one,  even  his  own  mother,  that  he  was  no  longer 
a  boy  to  be  managed  according  to  any  one's  fancies  except  his 
own. 

He  rode  straight  to  the  stables  and  loosed  the  girths  of  his 
horse  and  gave  particular  directions  about  grooming  and  feed- 
ing him,  and  stayed  in  the  stall  for  some  minutes  rubbing  his 
ears  and  fondling  him.  The  antagonism  which  possessed  him 
for  the  moment  against  mankind  perhaps  made  him  appreciate 
the  value  of  his  relations  with  a  well-trained  beast.  Then  he 
went  round  to  the  house  and  inquired  for  his  uncle.  He  had 
been  in  Englebourn  for  some  years,  and  the  servant  did  not 
know  him,  and  answered  that  Mr.  Winter  was  not  out  of  his 
room  and  never  saw  strangers  till  the  afternoon.  Where  w<*» 
Miss  Winter  then  ?  She  was  down  the  village  at  Widow 
Winburn's,  and  he  couldn't  tell  when  she  would  be  back,  the 
man  said.  The  contents  of  Katie's  note  of  the  day  before  had 
gone  out  of  his  head,  but  the  mention  of  Betty's  name  recalled 
them,  and  with  them  something  of  the  kindly  feeling  which  he 
had  had  on  hearing  of  her  illness.  So,  saying  he  would  call 
later  to  see  his  uncle,  he  started  again  to  find  the  widow's  cot 
tage,  and  his  cousin. 

The  servant  had  directed  him  to  the  last  house  in  the  village, 
but,  when  he  got  outside  the  gate,  there  were  houses  in  two 
directions.  He  looked  about  for  some  one  from  whom  to  in- 
quire further,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  our  old  acquaintance,  the 
constable,  coming  out  of  his  door  with  a  parcel  under  his  arm. 

The  little  man  was  in  a  brown  study,  and  did  not  notice 
Tom's  first  address.  He  was,  in  fact,  anxiously  thinking  over 
his  old  friend's  illness  and  her  son's  trouble ;  and  was  on 
his  way  to  Farmer  Grove's,  having  luckily  the  excuse  of  taking 
a  coat  to  be  tried  on,  in  the  hopes  of  getting  him  to  inter- 
fere and  patch  up  the  quarrel  between  young  Tester  and  Harry. 

Tom's  first  salute  had  been  friendly  enough ;  no  one  knew 
better  how  to  speak  to  the  poor,  amongst  whom  he  had  lived 
all  his  life,  than  he.  But,  not  getting  any  answer,  and  being 
'.n  a  touchy  state  of  mind,  he  was  put  out,  and  shouted, — 

"  Hullo,  my  man,  can't  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Ees,  I  beant  dunch,"  replied  the  constable,  turning  and 
looking  at  his  questioner. 

"  I  thought  you  were,  for  I  spoke  loud  enough  before. 
Which  is  Mrs.  Winburn's  cottage  ?  " 

"  The  f urdest  house  down  ther,"  he  said,  pointing,  "  'tis  in 


350  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

my  way  if  you've  a  mind  to  come."  Tom  accepted  the  offer 
and  walked  along  by  the  constable. 

"  Mrs.  Winbnrn  is  ill,  isn't  she  ?  "  he  asked,  after  looking  his 
guide  over. 

"  Ees,  her  be — terreble  bad,"  said  the  constable. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her,  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Zummat  o'  fits,  I  hears.  Her've  had  em  this  six  years  on 
and  off." 

u  I  suppose  it's  dangerous.  I  mean,  she  isn't  likely  to  get 
well?" 

"  'Tis  in  the  Lord's  hands,"  replied  the  constable,  "  but  her's 
that  bad  wi'  pain,  at  times,  'twould  be  a  mussy  if  'twould  plaase 
he  to  tak  her  out  on't." 

"  Perhaps  she  mightn't  think  so,"  said  Tom,  superciliously ; 
he  was  not  in  the  mind  to  agree  with  any  one.  The  constable 
looked  at  him  solemnly  for  a  moment  and  then  said, — 

"  Her's  been  a  God-fearin'  woman  from  her  youth  up,  and 
her's  had  a  deal  o'  trouble.  Thaay  as  the  Lord  loveth  he 
chasteneth,  and  'tisn't  such  as  thaay  as  is  afeared  to  go  afore 
him." 

"  Well,  I  never  found  that  having  troubles  made  people  a 
bit  more  anxious  to  get  '  out  on't,'  as  you  call  it,"  said  Tom. 

"  It  don't  seem  to  me  as  you  can  'a  had  much  o'  trouble  to 
judge  by,"  said  the  constable,  who  was  beginning  to  be  nettled 
by  Tom's  manner. 

"  How  can  you  tell  that  ?  " 

"  Leastways  'twould  be  whoam-made,  then,"  persisted  the 
constable,  "  and  ther's  a  sight  o'  odds  atween  whoam-made 
troubles  and  thaay  as  the  Lord  sends." 

"  So  there  may  be ;  but  I  may  have  seen  both  sorts  for  any 
thing  you  can  tell." 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  the  Lord's  troubles  leaves  his  marks." 

"  And  you  don't  see  any  of  them  in  my  face,  eh  ?  " 

The  constable  jerked  his  head  after  his  own  peculiar  fashion, 
bnt  declined  to  reply  directly  to  this  interrogatory.  He  par- 
ried it  by  one  of  his  own. 

"  In  the  doctorin'  line,  make  so  bould  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom.  "  You  don't  seem  to  have  such  very  good 
eyes,  after  all." 

"  Oh,  I  seed  you  wasn't  old  enough  to  be  doin'  for  yourself, 
like ;  but  I  thought  you  med  ha'  been  a  'sistant,  or  summat." 

"Well,  then,  you're  just  mistaken,"  said  Tom,  considerably 
disgusted  at  being  taken  for  a  country  doctor's  assistant. 

"  I  ax  your  pardon,"  said  the  constable.  "  But  if  you  beant 
in  the  doctorin'  line,  what  be  gwine  to  Widow  Winburn's  for, 
make  so  bould  ?  " 


A  CRISIS.  851 

"  That's  my  look-out,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  almost  angrily. 
**  That's  the  house,  isn't  it  ? "  and  he  pointed  to  the  cottage 
already  described  at  the  corner  of  Englebourn  Copse. 

«  Ees." 

<«  Good-day,  then." 

*  Good-day,"  muttered  the  constable,  not  at  all  satisfied  with 
this  abrupt  close  of  the  conversation,  but  too  unready  to  pro- 
long it.  He  went  on  his  own  way  slowly,  looking  back  often, 
till  he  saw  the  door  open  ;  after  which  he  seemed  better  satis- 
fied, and  ambled  out  of  sight. 

"The  old  snuffler!"  thought  Tom,  as  bestrode  up  to  the 
cottage  door — "  a  ranter,  I'll  be  bound,  with  his  '  Lord's 
troubles,'  and  'Lord's  hands,'  and  'Lord's  marks.'  I  hope 
Uncle  Robert  hasn't  many  such  in  the  parish." 

He  knocked  at  the  cottage  door,  and  in  a  few  seconds  it 
opened  gently,  and  Katie  slipped  out  with  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  surprise  at  seeing  him,  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said,  "  she  is  asleep.  You  are  not  in  a  hurry?  " 

"  No,  not  particularly,"  he  answered,  abruptly ;  for  there  was 
something  in  her  voice  and  manner  which  jarred  with  his 
humor. 

"  Hush ! "  she  said  again,  "  you  must  not  apeak  so  loud. 
We  can  sit  down  here,  and  talk  quietly.  I  shall  hear  if  she 
moves." 

So  he  sat  down  opposite  to  her  in  the  little  porch  of  the 
cottage.  She  left  the  door  ajar,  so  that  she  might  catch  the 
least  movement  of  her  patient,  and  then  turned  to  him  with  a 
bright  smile,  and  said, — 

"  Well,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !  What  good  wind  blows 
you  here  ?  " 

"  No  particularly  good  wind,  that  I  know  of.  Mary  showed 
me  your  letter  yesterday,  and  mother  wished  me  to  come 
round  here  on  my  way  home ;  and  so  here  I  am." 

"  And  how  did  the  party  go  off  ?    I  long  to  hear  about  it." 

"  Very  well ;  half  the  county  were  there,  and  it  was  all  very 
well  done." 

"And  how  did  dear  Mary  look?" 

"Oh,  just  as  usual.  But  now,  Katie,  why  didn't  you  come ? 
Mary  and  all  of  us  were  so  disappointed." 

"  I  thought  you  read  my  letter." 

"Yes,  so  I  did." 

"  Then  you  know  the  reason." 

•*!  don't  call  it  a  reason.  Really,  you  have  no  right  to  shut 
yourself  up  from  everything.  You  will  be  getting  moped  to 
death." 


352  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOED. 

"  But  do  I  look  moped !  "  she  said ;  and  he  looked  at  her, 
and  couldn't  help  admitting  to  himself,  reluctantly,  that  she 
did  not.  So  he  re-opened  fire  from  another  point. 

"  You  will  wear  yourself  out,  nursing  every  old  woman  in 
the  parish." 

"  But  I  don't  nurse  every  old  woman." 

"  Why,  there  is  no  one  here  but  you  to-day  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  motion  of  his  head  towards  the  cottage. 

"  No,  because  I  have  let  the  regular  nurse  go  home  for  a 
few  hours.  Besides,  this  is  a  special  case.  You  don't  know 
what  a  dear  old  soul  Betty  is." 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  remember  her  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

"  Ah,  I  forgot ;  I  have  often  heard  her  talk  of  you.  Then 
you  ought  not  to  be  surprised  at  anything  I  may  do  for  her." 

"She  is  a  good,  kind  old  woman,  I  know.  But  still  I  must 
say,  Katie,  you  ought  to  think  of  your  friends  and  relations  a 
little,  and  what  you  owe  to  society." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  think  of  my  friends  and  relations  very  much, 
and  I  should  have  liked,  of  all  things,  to  have  been  with  you 
yesterday.  You  ought  to  be  pitying  me,  instead  of  scolding 
me." 

"  My  dear  Katie,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  to  scold  you  ;  and 
nobody  admires  the  way  you  give  yourself  up  to  visiting,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  more  than  I ;  only  you  ought  to  have  a 
little  pleasure  sometimes.  People  have  a  right  to  think  of 
themselves  and  their  own  happiness  a  little." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  find  visiting,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  a 
you  call  it,  so  very  miserable.    But  now,  Tom,  you  saw  in  my 
letter  that  poor  Betty's  son  has  got  into  trouble  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  that  is  what  brought  on  her  attack,  you  said." 

"  I  believe  so.  She  was  in  a  sad  state  about  him  all  yester- 
day,— so  painfully  eager  and  anxious.  She  is  better  to-day; 
but  still  I  think  it  would  do  her  good  if  you  would  see  her,  and 
say  you  will  be  a  friend  to  her  son.  Would  you  mind  ?" 

"It  was  just  what  I  wished  to  do  yesterday.  I  will  do  all  I 
can  for  him,  I'm  sure.  1  always  liked  him  as  a  boy ;  you  can 
tell  her  that.  But  I  don't  feel,  somehow,  to-day,  at  least,  as  if 
I  could  do  any  good  by  seeing  her." 

"Oh,  why  not?" 

"I  don't  think  I'm  in  the  right  humor.     Is  she  very  ill  ? 

"  Yes,  very  ill  indeed  ;  I  don't  think  she  can  recover." 

"Well,  you  see,  Katie,  I'm  not  used  to  death-beds.  I 
shouldn't  say  the  right  sort  of  thing." 

"How  do  you  mean — the  right  sort  of  thing?" 

"  Oh,  you  know.  I  couldn't  talk  to  her  about  her  soul-  I'm 
not  fit  for  it ;  and  it  isn't  my.  place." 


A  CUISI8.  353 

"  No,  indeed,  it  isn't.  But  you  can  remind  her  of  old  times, 
and  say  a  kind  word  about  her  sou." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  don't  think  I  shall  do  any  harm." 

"  I'm  suro  it  will  comfort  her.  And  now  tell  me  about 
yesterday." 

They  sat  talking  for  some  time  in  the  same  low  tone,  and 
Tom  began  to  forget  his  causes  of  quarrel  with  the  world,  and 
gave  an  account  of  the  archery  party  from  his  own  point  of 
view.  Katie  saw,  with  a  woman  s  quickness,  that  he  avoided 
mentioning  Mary,  and  smiled  to  herself,  and  drew  her  own 
conclusions. 

At  last,  there  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  cottage,  and 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  she  got  up  quickly  and  went  in. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  came  to  the  door  again. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Oh,  much  the  same  ;  but  she  has  waked  without  pain,  which 
is  a  great  blessing.  Now,  are  you  ready?" 

"Yes;  but  you  must  go  with  me." 

"Come  in,  then."  She  turned,  and  he  followed  into  the 
cottage. 

Betty's  bed  had  been  moved  into  the  kitchen,  for  the  sake  of 
Jight  and  air.  He  glanced  at  the  corner  where  it  stood  with 
almost  a  feeling  of  awe,  as  he  followed  his  cousin  on  tip-toe. 
It  was  all  he  could  do  to  recognize  the  pale,  drawn  face  which 
lay  on  the  coarse  pillow.  The  rush  of  old  memories  which  the 
sight  called  up,  and  the  thought  of  the  suffering  of  his  poor  old 
friend,  touched  him  deeply. 

Katie  went  to  the  bedside,  and  stooping  down,  smoothed 
the  pillow,  and  placed  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  forehead 
of  her  patient.  Then  she  looked  up,  and  beckoned  to  him,  and 
said,  in  her  low,  clear  voice, — 

"  Betty,  here  is  an  old  friend  come  to  see  you  ;  my  cousin, 
Squire  Brown's  son.  You  remember  him  quite  a  little  boy." 

The  old  woman  moved  her  head  towards  the  voice  and 
smiled,  but  gave  no  further  sign  of  recognition.  Tom  stole 
across  the  floor,  and  sat  down  by  the  bedside. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Betty,"  he  said,  leaning  towards  her  and  speaking 
softly,  "you  must  remember  me.  Master  Tom — who  used  to 
come  to  your  cottage  on  baking  days  for  hot  bread,  you  know." 

"  To  be  sure,  I  minds  'un,  bless  his  little  heart,"  said  the  old 
ivoman  faintly.  "  Hev  he  come  to  see  poor  Betty  ?  Do'ee  let 
'un  com,  and  lift  un  up  so  as  I  med  see  'un.  My  sight  be  get 
ting  dimlike." 

"  Here  he  is,  Betty,"  said  Tom,  taking  her  hand — a  hard 
working  hand,  lying  there  with  the  skin  all  puckered  from  long 


354  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

and  daily  acquaintance  with  the  washing-tub — "I'm  Master 
Tom." 

"  Ah,  dearee  me,"  she  said,  slowly,  looking  at  him  with  lustre- 
less eyes.  "  Well,  you  be  growed  into  a  fine  young  gentleman, 
surely.  And  how's  the  Squire,  and  Madam  Brown,  and  all  the 
fam'ly?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Betty, — they  will  be  so  sorry  to  hear  of  your 
illness." 

"  But  there  ain't  no  hot  bread  for  'un.  "Tis  ill  to  bake  wi'  no 
fuz  bushes,  and  bakers'  stuff  is  poor  for  hungry  folk." 

"I'm  within  three  months  as  old  as  your  Harry,  you  know," 
said  Tom,  trying  to  lead  her  back  to  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  Harry,"  she  repeated,  and  then  collecting  herself  went  on, 
"  our  Harry  ?  where  is  he  ?  They  haven't  sent  'un  to  prison, 
and  his  mother  a  dyin'  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Betty ;  he  will  be  here  directly.  I  came  to  ask 
whether  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  You'll  stand  by  'un,  poor  buoy — our  Harry,  as  you  used  to 
play  wi'  when  you  was  little — 'twas  they  as  aggravated  'un  so 
as  he  couldn't  abear  it,  afore  ever  he'd  a  struck  a  fly." 

"  Yes,  Betty ;  I  will  see  that  he  has  fair  play.  Don't 
trouble  about  that ;  it  will  be  all  right.  You  must  be  quite 
quiet,  and  not  trouble  yourself  about  anything,  that  you  may 
get  well  and  about  again." 

"Nay,  nay,  Master  Tom.  I  be  gwine  whoam;  ees,  I  be 
gwine  whoam  to  my  maester,  Harry's  father — I  knows  I  be — 
and  you'll  stand  by  'un  when  I  be  gone ;  and  Squire  Brown'H 
say  a  good  word  for  'un  to  the  magistrates  ?  " 

"Yes,  Betty,  that  he  will.  But  you  must  cheer  up,  and 
you'll  get  better  yet ;  don't  be  afraid." 

"  I  beant  af eard,  Master  Tom ;  no,  bless  you,  I  beant  afeard 
but  what  the  Lord'll  be  mussiful  to  a  poor  lone  woman  like  me, 
as  has  had  a  sore  time  of  it  since  my  maester  died,  wi'  a  hungry 
boy  like  our  Harry  to  kep  back  and  belly  ;  and  the  rheumatics 
terrible  bad  all  winter  time." 

"  I'm  sure,  Betty,  you  have  done  your  duty  by  him,  and  every 
one  else." 

"  Dwontee  speak  o'  doin's,  Master  Tom.  'Tis  no  doin's  o* 
owrn  as'll  make  any  odds  where  I  be  gwine." 

Tom  did  not  know  what  to  answer ;  so  he  pressed  her  hand 
and  said, — 

"  Well,  Betty,  I  am  very  glad  I  have  seen  you  once  more ; 
I  sha'n't  forget  it.  Harry  sha'n't  want  a  friend  while  I 
live." 

"  The  Lord  bless  you,  Master  Tom,  for  that  word,"  said  the 


A  CRISIS.  355 

dying  woman,  returniug  the  pressure,  as  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Katie,  who  had  been  watching  her  carefully  from  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  made  him  a  sign  to  go. 

"  Good-by,  Betty,"  he  said ;  "  I  wont  forget,  you  may  be 
sure ;  God  bless  you ; "  and  then,  disengaging  his  hand  gently, 
went  out  again  into  the  porch  where  he  sat  down  to  waii 
for  his  cousin. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  nurse  returned,  and  Katie  came  out  oi! 
the  cottage  soon  afterwards. 

"  Now  I  will  walk  up  home  with  you,"  she  said.  "  You 
must  come  in  and  see  papa.  Well,  I'm  sure,  you  must  be 
glad  you  went  in.  Was  not  I  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  I  wish  I  could  have  said  something  more  to 
comfort  her." 

"You  couldn't  have  said  more.  It  was  just  what  she 
wanted." 

"  But  where  is  her  son  ?     I  ought  to  see  him  before  I  go." 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  doctor's  for  some  medicine.  He  will 
be  back  soon." 

"  Well,  I  must  see  him ;  and  I  should  like  to  do  something  for 
him  at  once.  I'm  not  very  flush  of  money,  but  I  must  give  you 
something  for  him.  You'll  take  it ;  I  shouldn't  like  to  offer  it 
to  him."  ' 

"  I  hardly  think  he  wants  money ;  they  are  well  off  now. 
He  earns  good  wages,  and  Betty  has  done  her  washing  up  to 
this  week. 

"Yes,  but  he  will  be  fined,  I  suppose,  for  this  assault;  and 
then,  if  she  should  die,  there  will  be  the  funeral  expenses." 

"  Very  well ;  as  you  please,"  she  said ;  and  Tom  proceeded 
to  hand  over  to  her  all  his  ready  money,  except  a  shilling  or 
two.  After  satisfying  his  mind  thus  he  looked  at  her  and 
said, — 

"  Do  you  know,  Katie,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  so  happy 
and  in  such  spirits  ?  " 

"  There  now !  And  yet  you  began  talking  to  me  as  if  I  were 
looking  sad  enough  to  turn  all  the  beer  in  the  parish  sour." 

"  Well,  so  you  ought  to  be,  according  to  Cocker,  spending 
all  your  time  in  sick-rooms." 

"  According  to  who  ?  "  ie^ , 

"  According  to  Cocker  " 

"Who  is  Cocker?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  some  old  fellow  who  wrote  the  rules  of 
arithmetic,  I  believe  ;  it's  only  a  bit  of  slang.  But,  I  repeat 
you  have  a  right  to  be  sad,  and  it's  taking  an  unfair  advantage 
of  your  relations  to  look  as  pleasant  as  you  do." 

Katie  laughed  ;  "  You  ought  not  to  say  so,  at  any  rate,"  sh« 


356  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

said,  "  for  you  look  all  the  pleasanter  for  your  visit  to  a  sick- 
room." 

"Did  I  look  very  unpleasant  before?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  were  in  a  very  good  humor." 

"  No,  I  was  in  a  very  bad  humor,  and  talking  to  you  and 
poor  old  Betty  has  set  me  right,  I  think.  But  you  said  hers 
was  a  special  case.  It  must  be  very  sad  work  in  general." 

"Only  when  one  sees  people  in  great  pain,  or  when  they  are 
wicked,  and  quarreling,  or  complaining  about  nothing;  then  I 
do  get  very  low  sometimes.  But  even  then  it  is  much  better 
than  keeping  to  one's  self.  Anything  is  better  than  thinking 
of  one's  self,  and  one's  own  trouble." 

4<  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  Tom,  recalling  his  morn- 
ing's meditation,  "  especially  when  one's  troubles  are  home- 
made. Look,  here's  an  old  fellow  who  gave  me  a  lecture  on 
that  subject  before  I  saw  you  this  morning,  and  took  me  for 
the  apothecary's  boy." 

They  were  almost  opposite  David's  door,  at  which  he  stood 
with  a  piece  of  work  in  his  hand.  He  had  seen  Miss  Winter 
from  his  look-out  window,  and  had  descended  from  his  board 
in  hopes  of  hearing  news. 

Katie  returned  his  respectful  and  anxious  salute,  and  said, 
"  She  is  no  worse,  David.  We  left  her  quite  out  of  pain  and 
very  quiet." 

"  Ah,  'tis  to  be  hoped  as  she'll  hev  a  peaceful  time  on't  now, 
poor  soul,"  said  David ;  "  I've  a  been  to  Farmer  Grove's,  and 
I  hopes  as  he'll  do  summat  about  Harry." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Winter,  "  and  my  cousin 
here,  who  knew  Harry  very  well  when  they  were  little  boys 
together,  has  promised  to  help  him.  This  is  Harry's  best 
friend,"  she  said  to  Tom,  "  who  has  done  more  than  any  one  to 
keep  him  right." 

David  seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  and  began  jerking  hit 
head  about  when  his  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  whom  he 
had  scarcely  noticed  before,  was  introduced  by  Miss  Winter  as 
"  my  cousin." 

" I  wish  to  do  all  I  can  for  him,"  said  Tom,  "and  I'm  very 
glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  You  must  let  me  know 
whenever  I  can  &elp ;  "  and  he  took  out  a  card  and  handed  it 
to  David,  who  lo'oked  at  it,  and  then  said, — 

"  And  I  be  to  write  to  you,  sir,  then,  if  Harry  gets  into 
trouble?" 

"  Yes,  but  we  must  keep  him  out  of  trouble,  even  home- 
made ones,  which  don't  leave  good  marks,  you  know,"  said 
Tom. 


A  CRISIS.  357 

**  And  thaay  be  nine  out  o'  ten  oj  aal  as  comes  to  a  man,  sir," 
said  David,  "  as  I've  a  told  Harry  scores  o'  times." 

"  That  seems  to  be  your  text,  David,"  said  Tom,  laughing. 

"Ah,  and  'tis  a  good  un  too,  sir.  Ax  Miss  Winter  else. 
'Tis  a  sight  better  to  hev  the  Lord's  troubles  while  you  be 
about  it,  for  thaay  as  hasn't  makes  wus  for  theirselves  out  o' 
nothin'.  D won't  'em,  miss  ?" 

"  Yes ;  you  know  that  I  agree  with  you,  David." 

u  Good-by,  then,"  said  Tom,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  and  mind 
you  let  me  hear  from  you." 

"  What  a  queer  old  bird,  with  his  whole  wisdom  of  man 
packed  up  small  for  ready  use,  like  a  quack  doctor,"  he  said,  as 
soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  Indeed,  he  isn't  the  least  like  a  quack  doctor.  I  don't  know 
a  better  man  in  the  parish,  though  he  is  rather  obstinate,  like 
all  the  rest  of  them." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  against  him,  I  assure  you," 
said  Tom  ;  "  on  the  contrary  I  think  him  a  fine  old  fellow. 
But  I  didn't  think  so  this  morning,  when  he  showed  me  the 
way  to  Betty's  cottage."  The  fact  was  that  Tom  saw  all 
things  and  persons  with  quite  a  different  pair  of  eyes  from 
those  which  he  had  been  provided  with  when  he  arrived  in 
Englebourn  that  morning.  He  even  made  allowances  for  old 
Mr.  Winter,  who  was  in  his  usual  querulous  state  at  luncheon, 
though  perhaps  it  would  have  been  difficult  in  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood to  find  a  more  pertinent  comment  on  and  illustration 
of  the  constable's  text  than  the  poor  old  man  furnished,  with 
his  complaints  about  his  own  health  and  all  he  had  to  do  and 
think  of,  and  everybody  about  him.  It  did  strike  Tom,  how- 
ever, as  very  wonderful  how  such  a  character  as  Katie's  could 
have  grown  up  under  the  shade  of,  and  in  constant  contact 
with,  such  an  one  as  her  father's.  He  wished  his  uncle  good- 
by  soon  after  luncheon,  and  he  and  Katie  started  again  down 
the  village — she  to  return  to  her  nursing  and  he  on  his  way 
home.  He  led  his  horse  by  the  bridle  and  walked  by  her  side 
down  the  street.  She  pointed  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch  as  they 
walked  along,  and  said,  "You  should  ride  up  there;  it  is 
scarcely  out  of  your  way.  Mary  and  I  used  to  walk  there 
every  day  when  she  was  here,  and  she  was  so  fond  of  it." 

At  the  cottage  they  found  Harry  Winburn.  He  came  out, 
and  the  two  young  men  shook  hands,  and  looked  one  another 
over,  and  exchanged  a  few  shy  sentences.  Tom  managed  with 
difficulty  to  say  the  little  he  had  to  say,  but  tried  to  make  up 
for  it  by  a  hearty  manner.  It  was  not  the  time  or  place  for 
any  unnecessary  talk ;  so  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  mounted 


358  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

and  riding  up  the  slope  towards  the  heath.  "I  should  say  he 
must  be  half  a  stone  lighter  than  I,"  he  thought,  "  and  not 
quite  so  tall ;  but  he  looked  as  hard  as  iron,  and  tough  as 
whipcord.  What  a  No.  7  he'd  make  in  a  heavy  crew  I  Poor 
fellow,  he  seems  dreadfully  cut  up.  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to 
be  of  use  to  him.  Now  for  this  place  which  Katie  showed  me 
from  the  village  street." 

He  pressed  his  horse  up  the  steep  side  of  the  Hawk's  Lynch. 
The  exhilaration  of  the  scramble,  and  the  sense  of  power,  and 
of  some  slight  risk,  which  he  felt  as  he  helped  on  the  gallant 
beast  with  hand  and  knee  and  heel,  and  the  loose  turf  and 
stones  flew  from  his  hoofs  and  rolled  down  the  hill  behind 
him,  made  his  eyes  kindle  and  his  pulse  beat  quicker  as  he 
reached  the  top  and  pulled  up  under  the  Scotch  firs.  "  This 
was  her  favorite  walk,  then.  No  wonder.  What  an  air,  and 
what  a  view !  "  He  jumped  off  his  horse,  slipped  the  bridle 
over  his  arm  and  let  him  pick  away  at  the  short  grass  and  tufts 
of  heath  as  he  himself  first  stood,  and  then  sat,  and  looked  out 
over  the  scene  which  she  had  so  often  looked  over.  She  might 
have  sat  on  the  very  spot  he  was  sitting  on ;  she  must  have 
taken  in  the  same  expanse  of  wood  and  meadow,  village  and 
park,  and  dreamy,  distant  hill.  Her  presence  seemed  to  fill 
the  air  round  him.  A  rush  of  new  thoughts  and  feelings  swam 
through  his  brain  and  carried  him,  a  willing  piece  of  drift-man, 
along  with  them.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the  stream,  and*rev- 
elled  in  them.  His  eye  traced  back  the  road  along  which  he 
had  ridden  in  the  morning,  and  rested  on  the  Barton  woods, 
just  visible  in  the  distance,  on  this  side  of  the  point  where  all 
outline  except  that  of  the  horizon  began  to  be  lost.  The  flick- 
ering July  air  seemed  to  beat  in  a  pulse  of  purple  glory  over 
the  spot.  The  soft  wind  which  blew  straight  from  Barton 
seemed  laden  with  her  name,  and  whispered  "it  in  the  firs  over 
his  head.  Every  nerve  in  his  body  was  bounding  with  new 
life,  and  he  could  sit  still  no  longer.  He  rose,  sprang  on  his 
horse,  and,  with  a  shout  of  joy,  turned  from  the  vale  and 
rushed  away  on  to  the  heath,  northwards,  towards  his  home 
behind  the  chalk  hills.  He  had  ridden  into  Englebourn  in  the 
morning  an  almost  unconscious  dabbler  by  the  margin  of  the 
great  stream ;  he  rode  from  the  Hawk's  Lynch  in  the  after- 
noon over  head  and  ears,  and  twenty,  a  hundred,  ay,  unnum- 
bered fathoms  below  that,  deep,  consciously,  and  triumphantly 
in  love. 

But  at  what  a  pace,  and  in  what  a  form !  Love,  at  least  in 
his  first  access,  must  be  as  blind  a  horseman  as  he  is  an 
archer.  The  heath  was  rough  with  peat-cutting  and  turf-cut- 


A  CRISIS.  359 

ting,  and  many  a  deep-rutted  farm  road  and  tracks  of  heather 
and  furze.  Over  them  and  through  them  went  horse  and  man 
— horse  rising  seven  and  man  twenty  off,  a  well-matched  pair 
in  age  for  a  wild  ride — headlong  towards  the  north,  till  a  blind 
rut  somewhat  deeper  than  usual  put  an  end  to  their  career, 
and  sent  the  good  horse  staggering  for  ward  some  thirty  feet  on 
to  his  nose  and  knees,  and  Tom  over  his  shoulder,  on  to  his 
back  in  the  heather. 

**  Well,  it's  lucky  it's  no  worse,"  thought  our  hero,  as  he  picked 
himself  up  and  anxiously  examined  the  horse,  who  stood  trem- 
bling and  looking  wildly  puzzled  at  the  whole  proceeding;  "I 
hope  he  hasn't  overreached.  What  will  the  governor  say? 
His  knees  are  all  right.  Poor  old  boy,"  he  said,  patting  him, 
"  no  wonder  you  look  astonished.  You're  not  in  love.  Come 
along ;  we  won't  make  fools  of  ourselves  any  more.  What  is 
it?— 

"  *  A  true  love  forsaken  a  new  love  may  get, 

But  a  neck  that's  once  broken  can  never  be  set. 

What  stuff;  one  may  get  a  neck  set  for  anything  I  know;  but 
a  new  lore — blasphemy !  " 

The  rest  of  the  ride  passed  off  soberly  enough,  except  in 
Tom's  brain,  wherein  were  built  up  in  gorgeous  succession 
castles  such  as  we  have  all  built,  I  suppose,  before  now.  And 
with  the  castles  were  built  up  side  by  side  good  honest  resolves 
to  be  worthy  of  her,  and  win  her  and  worship  her  with  body, 
and  mind,  and  soul.  And,  as  a  first  instalment  away  to  the 
winds  went  all  the  selfish  morning  thoughts ;  and  he  rode 
down  the  northern  slope  of  the  chalk  hills  a  dutiful  and  affec- 
tionate son,  at  peace  with  Mrs.  Porter,  and  honoring  her  for  her 
care  of  the  treasure  which  he  was  seeking,  and  in  good  time 
for  dinner. 

"Well,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  to  her  husband  when  they 
were  alone  that  night,  "  did  you  ever  er*e  Tom  in  such  spirits, 
and  so  gentle  and  affectionate  ?  Dear  boy  ;  there  can  be  noth- 
ing the  matter." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  you  women 
have  always  got  some  nonsense  in  your  heads  as  soon  as  your 
boys  have  a  hair  on  their  chin  or  your  girls  begin  to  put  up 
their  back  hair." 

"  Well,  John,  say  what  you  will,  I'm  sure  Mary  Porter  is  a 
very  sweet,  talking  girl  and — " 

"lam  quite  of  the  same  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "and 
am  very  glad  you  have  written  to  ask  them  here." 

And  so  the  worthy  couple  went  happily  to  bed. 


360  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BROWN   PATBONUS. 

ON  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  August,  a  few  weeks  after  hie 
eventful  ride,  Torn  returned  to  Englebourn  Rectory,  to  stay 
over  Sunday  and  attend  Betty  Win  burn's  funeral.  He  was 
strangely  attracted  to  Harry  by  the  remembrance  of  their  old 
boyish  rivalry ;  by  the  story  which  he  had  heard  from  his 
cousin,  of  the  unwavering  perseverance  with  which  the  young 
peasant  clung  to  and  pursued  his  suit  for  Simon's  daughter; 
but,  more  than  all,  by  the  feeling  of  gratitude  with  which  he 
remembered  the  effect  his  visit  to  Betty's  sick-voom  had  had 
on  him,  on  the  day  of  his  ride  from  Barton  Manor.  On  that 
day  he  knew  that  he  had  ridden  into  Englebourn  in  a  miserable 
mental  fog,  and  had  ridden  out  of  it  in  sunshine,  which  had 
lasted  through  the  intervening  weeks.  Somehow  or  another 
he  had  got  set  straight  then  and  there,  turned  into  the  right 
road  and  out  of  the  wrong  one,  at  what  he  very  naturally  be- 
lieved to  be  the  most  critical  moment  of  his  life. 

Without  stopping  to  weigh  accurately  the  respective  merits 
of  the  several  persons  whom  he  had  come  in  contact  with  on 
that  day,  he  credited  them  all  with  a  large  amount  of  gratitude 
and  good-will,  and  Harry  with  his  mother's  share  as  well  as  his 
own.  So  he  had  been  longing  to  do  something  for  him  ever 
since;  the  more  he  rejoiced  in  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  own 
new  sensations,  the  more  did  his  gratitude  become  as  it  were  .1 
burden  to  him,  and  yet  no  opportunity  offered  of  letting  off 
some  of  it  in  action.  The  magistrates,  taking  into  considera- 
tion the  dangerous  state  of  his  mother,  had  let  Harry  off  with 
a  reprimand  for  his  assault,  so  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
there.  He  wrote  to  Katie,  offering  more  money  for  the  Win- 
burns,  but  she  declined,  adding,  however,  to  her  note  by  way 
of  postscript,  that  he  might  give  it  to  her  clothing  club,  or  coal 
club.  Then  came  the  news  of  Betty's  death,  and  an  intima- 
tion from  Katie  that  she  thought  Harry  would  be  much  grati- 
fied if  he  would  attend  the  funeral.  He  jumped  at  the  sug- 
gestion. All  Englebourn,  from  the  Hawk's  Lynch  to  the  Rec- 
tory, was  hallowed  ground  to  him.  The  idea  of  getting  back 
there,  so  much  nearer  to  Barton  Manor,  filled  him  with  joy 
which  he  tried  in  vain  to  repress  when  he  thought  of  the  main 
object  of  his  visit. 

He  arrived  in  time  to  go  and  shake  hands  with  Harry  before 
dinner,  and  though  scarcely  a  word  passed  between  them,  he 
saw  with  delight  that  he  had  evidently  given  pleasure  to  the 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  361 

mourner.  Then  he  had  a  charming  long  evening  with  Katie, 
walking  in  the  garden  with  her  between  dinner  and  tea,  and 
after  tea  discoursing  in  low  tones  over  her  work-table,  while 
Mr.  Winter  benevolently  slept  in  his  arm-chair.  Their  dis- 
course branched  into  many  paths,  but  managed  always  some- 
how to  end  in  the  sayings,  beliefs,  and  perfections  of  the  young 
lady  of  Barton  Manor.  Tom  wondered  how  it  had  happened 
fco  when  he  got  to  his  own  room,  as  he  fancied  he  had  not  be- 
trayed himself  in  the  least.  He  had  determined  to  keep  reso- 
lutely on  his  guard,  and  to  make  a  confidant  of  no  living  soul 
till  he  was  twenty-one ;  and  though  sorely  tempted  to  break 
hia  resolution  in  favor  of  Katie,  had  restrained  himself.  He 
might  have  spared  himself  all  the  trouble,  but  that  he  did  uot 
know,  being  unversed  in  the  ways  of  women,  and  all  unaware 
of  the  subtlety  and  quickness  of  their  intuitions  in  all  matters 
connected  with  the  heart.  Poor,  dear,  stolid,  dim-sighted  man- 
kind, how  they  do  see  through  us  and  walk  round  us ! 

The  funeral  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  between  churches  had 
touched  him  much,  being  the  first  he  had  ever  attended.  He 
walked  next  behind  the  chief  mourner,  the  few  friends, 
amongst  whom  David  was  conspicuous,  yielding  place  to  him. 
He  stood  beside  him  in  church,  and  at  the  open  grave,  and 
made  the  responses  as  firmly  as  he  could,  and  pressed  his  shoul- 
der against  his,  when  he  felt  the  strong  frame  of  the  son  trem- 
bling with  the  weight  and  burden  of  his  resolutely  suppressed 
agony.  When  they  parted  at  the  cottage  door,  to  which  Tom 
accompanied  the  mourner  and  his  old  and  tried  friend  David, 
though  nothing  but  a  look  and  a  grasp  of  the  hand  passed  be- 
tween them,  he  felt  that  they  were  bound  by  a  new  and  invisi- 
ble bond;  and  as  he  walked  back  up  the  village  and  past  the 
churchyard,  where  the  children  wei'e  playing  about  on  the 
graves,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  watch  the  sexton  as  he 
stamped  down  and  filled  in  the  mould  on  the  last-made  one, 
beside  which  he  had  himself  stood  as  a  mourner,  and  heard  the 
bells  beginning  to  chime  for  the  afternoon  service,  resolved 
within  himself  that  he  would  be  a  true  and  helpful  friend  to 
the  widow's  son.  On  this  subject  he  could  talk  freely  to  Katie, 
and  did  so  that  evening,  expounding  how  much  one  in  his  posi- 
tion could  do  for  a  young  laboring  man  if  he  really  was  bent 
upon  it,  and  building  up  grand  castles  for  Harry,  the  founda- 
tions of  which  rested  on  his  own  determination  to  benefit  and 
patronize  him.  Katie  listened  half  doubtingly  at  first,  but 
was  soon  led  away  by  his  confidence,  and  poured  out  the  tea  in 
the  full  belief  that,  with  Tom's  powerful  aid,  all  would  go  well. 
After  which  they  took  to  reading  the  Christian  Year  together, 


362  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

and  branched  into  discussions  on  profane  poetry,  which  Katie 
considered  scarcely  proper  for  the  evening,  but  which,  never- 
theless, being  of  such  rare  occurrence  with  her,  she  had  not  the 
heart  to  stop. 

The  next  morning  Tom  was  to  return  home,  and  after  break- 
fast began  the  subject  of  his  plans  for  Harry  again.  When 
Katie  produced  a  small  paper  packet,  and  handed  it  to  him, 
saying,— 

"  Here  is  your  money  again  !  " 

"What  money?" 

"  The  money  you  left  with  me  for  Harry  Wiuburn.  I  thought 
at  the  time  that  most  probably  he  would  not  take  it." 

"  But  are  you  sure  he  doesn't  want  it  ?  Did  you  try  hard  to 
get  him  to  take  it  ?  "  said  Tom,  holding  out  his  hand  reluctant- 
ly for  the  money. 

"  Not  myself.  I  couldn't  offer  him  money  myself,  of  course  5 
but  I  sent  it  by  David,  and  begged  him  to  do  all  he  could  to 
persuade  him  to  take  it." 

"  Well,  and  why  wouldn't  he?" 

"  Oh,  he  said  the  club-money  which  was  coming  in  was  more 
than  enough  to  pay  for  the  funeral,  and  for  himself  he  didn't 
want  it." 

"  How  provoking !  I  wonder  if  old  David  really  did  his  best 
to  get  him  to  take  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  he  did.  But  you  ought  to  be  very  glad  to 
find  some  independence  in  a  poor  man." 

"  Bother  his  independence.  I  don't  like  to  feel  that  it  costs 
me  nothing  but  talk — I  want  to  pay." 

"  Ah,  Tom,  if  you  knew  the  poor  as  well  as  I  do,  you 
wouldn't  say  so.  I  am  afraid  there  are  not  two  other  men  in 
the  parish  who  would  have  refused  your  money.  The  fear,  of 
undermining  their  independence  takes  away  all  my  pleasure  in 
giving." 

"  Undermining !  Why,  Katie,  I  am  sure  I  have  heard  you 
mourn  over  their  stubbornness  and  unreasonableness." 

"Oh,  yes;  they  are  often  provokingly  stubborn  and  un- 
reasonable, and  yet  not  independent  about  money,  or  anything 
they  can  get  out  of  you.  Besides,  I  acknowledge  that  I  have 
become  wiser  of  late ;  I  used  to  like  to  see  them  dependent, 
and  cringing  to  me,  but  now  I  dread  it." 

"  But  you  would  like  David  to  give  in  about  the  singing, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"  Yes,  if  he  would  give  in,  I  should  be  very  proud.  I  have 
learnt  a  great  deal  from  him ;  I  used  positively  to  dislike  him, 
but  now  that  I  know  him,  I  think  him  the  best  man  in  the 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  3C3 

parish.  If  he  ever  does  give  in,  and  I  think  he  will,  it  will  be 
worth  anything,  just  because  he  is  so  independent." 

"  That  s  all  very  well,  but  what  am  I  to  do  to  show  Harry 
Winburn  that  I  mean  to  be  his  friend,  if  he  won't  take  money  ? 

"  You  have  come  over  to  his  mother's  funeral — he  will  think 
more  of  that  than  of  all  the  money  you  could  give  him  ;  and 
you  can  show  sympathy  for  him  in  a  great  many  ways." 

"Well,  I  must  try.  By  the  way,  about  his  love  affair;  is 
the  young  lady  at  home  ?  I  have  never  seen  her,  you  know." 

"  No,  she  is  away  with  an  aunt,  looking  out  for  a  place.  I 
have  persuaded  her  to  get  one,  and  leave  home  again  for  the 
present.  Her  father  is  quite  well  now,  and  she  is  not  wanted." 

"  Well,  it  seems  I  can't  do  any  good  with  her,  then,  but 
could  not  I  go  and  talk  to  her  father  about  Harry  ?  I  might 
help  him  in  that  way." 

"  You  must  be  very  careful,  Simon  is  such  an  odd-tempered 
old  man." 

u  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid ;  he  and  I  are  great  chums,  and  a  little 
soft  soap  will  go  a  long  way  with  him.  Fancy  if  I  could  get 
him  this  very  morning  to  '  sanction  Harry's  suit,'  as  the  phrase 
is ;  what  should  you  think  of  me? " 

"  I  should  think  very  highly  of  your  powers  of  persuasion." 

Not  the  least  daunted  by  his  cousin's  misgivings,  Tom  started 
in  quest  of  Simon,  and  found  him  at  work  in  front  of  the  green- 
house,'surrounded  by  many  small  pots  and  heaps  of  finely  sifted 
mould,  and  absorbed  in  his  occupation. 

Simon  was  a  rough,  stolid  Berkshire  rustic,  somewhat  of  a 
tyrant  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  an  unmanageable  servant,  a 
cross-grained  acquaintance  ;  as  a  citizen,  stiff-necked  and  a 
grumbler,  who  thought  that  nothing  ever  went  right  in  the 
parish  ;  but,  withal,  a  thorough  honest  worker,  and  wheu 
allowed  to  go  his  own  way, — and  no  other  way  would  he  go,  as 
his  mistress  had  long  since  discovered, — there  was  no  man  who 
earned  his  daily  bread  more  honestly.  He  took  a  pride  in  his 
work,  and  the  rectory  garden  was  always  trim  and  well  kept, 
and  the  beds  bright  with  flowers  from  early  spring  till  late  au- 
tumn. 

He  was  absorbed  in  what  he  was  about,  and  Tom  came  up 
close  to  him  without  attracting  the  least  sign  of  recognition,  so 
he  stopped,  and  opened  the  conversation. 

"  Good-day,  Simon  ;  it's  a  pleasure  to  see  a  garden  looking 
so  gay  as  yours." 

Simon  looked  up  from  his  work,  and  when  he  saw  who  it 
was,  touchod  his  battered  old  hat,  and  answered, — 

"  Mornin,'  sir.     Ees,  you  finds  me  ailus  in  blume." 


364  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Indeed  I  do,  Simon  ;  but  how  do  you  manage  it?  I 
should  like  to  tell  my  father's  gardener." 

"  'Tis  no  use  to  tell  'un  if  a  hevn't  found  out  for  hisself ;  'tis 
nothing  but  lookin'  a  bit  forrard  and  farmyard  stuff  as  does  it-" 

"  Well,  there's  plenty  of  farmyard  stuff  at  home,  and  yet, 
xnnehow,  we  never  look  half  so  bright  as  you  do." 

"  May  be  as  your  gardener  just  takes  and  hits  it  auver  the 
top  o'  the  ground,  and  lets  it  lie.  That's  no  kinder  good,  that 
bennt — 'tis  the  roots  as  wants  the  stuff ;  and  you  med  jist  aa 
well  take  and  put  a  round  o'beef  agin  my  back  bwone  as  hit  the 
stuff  auver  the  ground,  and  never  see  as  it  gets  to  the  roots  »' 
the  plants." 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  can  be  that,"  said  Tom,  laughing  j 
"  our  gardener  seems  always  to  be  digging  his  manure  in,  but 
somehow  he  can't  make  it  come  out  in  flowers  as  you  do." 

"  Ther'  be  mwore  waays  o'  killin'  a  cat  besides  choking  on 
'un  wi'  cream,"  said  Simon,  chuckling  in  his  turn. 

"  That's  true,  Simon,"  said  Tom  ;  "  the  fact  is,  a  gardener 
must  know  his  business  as  well  as  vou  to  be  always  in  bloom, 
eh?" 

"  That's  about  it,  sir,"  said  Simon,  on  whom  the  flattery  was 
beginning  to  tell. 

Tom  saw  this,  and  thought  he  might  now  feel  his  way  a 
little  further  with  the  old  man. 

"  I'm  over  on  a  sad  errand,"  he  said  ;  "  I've  been  to  poor 
Widow  Winburn's  funeral — she  was  an  old  friend  of  yours,  I 
think?" 

"  Ees ;  I  minds  her  long  afore  she  wur  married,"  said  Simon, 
turning  to  his  pots  again. 

"  She  wasn't  an  old  woman,  after  all,"  said  Tom. 

"  Sixty-two  year  old  cum  Michaelmas,"  said  Simon. 

"  Well,  she  ought  to  have  been  a  strong  woman  for  another 
ten  years  at  least ;  why,  you  must  be  older  than  she  by  some 
years,  Simon,  and  you  can  do  a  good  day's  work  yet  Avith  any 
man." 

Simon  went  on  with  his  potting  without  replying,  except  by 
a  carefully  measured  grunt,  sufficient  to  show  that  he  had  heard 
the  remark,  and  was  not  much  impressed  by  it. 

Tom  saw  that  he  must  change  his  attack,  so,  after  watching 
Simon  for  a  minute,  he  began  again. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  men  of  your  time  of  life  are  so 
much  stronger  than  the  young  ones  in  constitution.  Now,  I 
don't  believe  there  are  three  young  men  in  Englebourn  who 
would  have  got  over  that  fall  you  had  at  Farmer  Groves'  so 
quick  as  you  have  ;  most  young  men  would  have  been  crippled 
for  life  bv  it." 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  365 

"  Zo  'em  would,  the  young  wosbirds.  I  dwon't  make  no  ac- 
count on  'em,"  said  Simon. 

"  And  you  don't  feel  any  the  worse  for  it,  Simon?" 

"  Narva  mossel,"  replied  Simon ;  but  presently  he  seemed  to 
recollect  something,  and  added,  "  I  wun't  saay  but  what  I  feels 
it  at  times  when  I've  got  to  stoop  about  much." 

"Ah,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Simon.  Then  you  oughtn't  to 
have  so  much  stooping  to  do ;  potting,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
is  the  work  for  you,  I  should  think,  and  just  giving  an  eye  to 
everything  about  the  place.  Anybody  could  do  the  digging 
and  setting  out  cabbages,  and  your  time  is  only  wasted  at  it." 
Tom  had  now  found  the  old  man's  weak  point. 

"  Ees,  sir,  and  so  I  tells  miss,"  he  said  ;  "  but  wi'  nothin'  but 
a  bit  o'  glass  no  bigger  'n  a  cowcumber  frame,  'tis  all  as  a  man 
can  do  to  keep  a  few  plants  alive  droo'  the  winter." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Tom,  looking  round  at  the  very  respectable 
greenhouse  whicli  Simon  had  contemptuously  likened  to  a  cu- 
cumber-frame, "you  ought  to  have  at  least  another  house  as 
big  as  this  for  forcing." 

"  Master  ain't  pleased,  he  aint,"  said  Simon, "  if  he  dwont  get 
his  things,  his  spring  wegebatles,  and  his  strawberries,  as  early 
as  though  we'd  a  got  forcin  pits,  and  glass  like  other  folk. 
'Tis  a  year  and  mwore  since  he  promised  as  I  sh'd  hev  glass 
along  that  ther'  wall,  but  'tis  no  nigher  cornin'  as  I  can  see.  1 
be  to  spake  to  miss  about  it  now  he  says,  and  when  e  spakes 
to  her,  'tis,  '  O  Simon,  we  must  wait  till  the  'spensary's  'stab- 
lished,'  or,  'O  Simon,  last  winter  wur  a  v  -irry  tryin'  wun,  and 
the  sick  club's  terrible  bad  off  for  funds,' — and  so  we  gwoes 
on,  and  med  gwo  on  for  aught  as  I  can  see,  so  long  as  ther's  a 
body  sick  or  bad  off  in  all  the  parish.  And  that'll  be  allus. 
For  what  wi'  miss'  vvisitin'  on  'em,  and  sendin'  on  'em  dinners, 
and  a'al  the  doctor's  stuff  as  is  served  out  o'  the'spensary — wy, 
'tis  enough  to  keep  'em  bad  a'al  ther'  lives.  Ther  aint  no 
credit  in  gettin'  well.  Ther  wur  no  sich  a  caddie  about  sick 
folk  when  I  wur  a  buoy." 

Simon  had  never  been  known  to  make  such  a  long  speech 
before,  and  Tom  augured  well  for  his  negotiation. 

"  Well,  Simon,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  talking  to  my  cousin, 
and  I  think  she  will  do  what  you  want  now.  The  dispensary 
is  set  up,  and  the  people  are  very  healthy.  How  much  glass 
should  you  want  now  along  that  wall  ?  " 

"  A  matter  o'  twenty  fit  or  so,"  said  Simon. 

"  I  think  that  can  be  managed,"  said  Tom,  "  I'll  speak  to  my 
cousin  about  it,  and  then  you  would  have  plenty  to  do  in  the 
houses,  and  you'd  want  a  regular  man  under  you, " 


3G6  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Eeg ;  t'would  take  two  on  us  reg'lar  to  kep  things  as  should 
be." 

"  And  you  ought  to  have  somebody  who  knows  what  he  is 
about.  Can  you  think  of  any  one  who  would  do,  Simon?" 

"  Ther's  a  young  chap  as  works  for  Squire  Wurley.  I've 
heard  as  he  wants  to  better  hisself." 

"  But  he  isn't  an  Englebourn  man.  Isn't  there  any  one  in 
the  parish?" 

"Ne'er  a  one  as  I  knows  on." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Harry  Winburn — he  seems  a  goo»3 
hand  with  flowers  ? "  The  words  had  scarcely  passed  bis  lips 
when  Tom  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  Old  Simon  re- 
tired into  himself  at  once,  and  a  cunning,  distrustful  look  came 
over  his  face.  There  was  no  doing  anything  with  him.  Even 
the  new  forcing-house  had  lost  its  attractions  for  him,  and 
Tom,  after  some  further  ineffectual  attempts  to  bring  him 
round,  returned  to  the  house  somewhat  crestfallen. 

"  Well,  how  have  you  succeeded  ?  "  said  Katie,  looking  up 
from  her  work,  as  he  came  in  and  sat  down  near  her  table. 
Tom  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  regular  hash  of  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
thought  at  first  I  had  quite  come  round  the  old  savage  by  prais- 
ing the  garden,  and  promising  that  you  would  let  him  have  a 
new  house." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  did  that !  "  said  Katie,  stop- 
ping her  work. 

"  Indeed,  but  I  did,  though.  I  was  drawn  on,  you  know.  I 
saw  it  was  the  right  card  to  play,  so  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  O  Tom  !  how  could  you  do  so  ?  We  don't  want  another 
house  the  least  in  the  world ;  it  is  only  Simon's  vanity.  He 
wants  to  beat  the  gardener  at  the  Grange  at  the  flower-shows. 
Every  penny  will  have  to  come  out  of  what  papa  allows  m« 
for  the  parish." 

**  Don't  be  afraid,  Katie,  you  won't  have  to  spend  a  penny. 
Of  course  I  reserved  a  condition.  The  new  house  was  to  be 
put  up  if  he  would  take  Harry  as  under-gardener." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  said  nothing.  I  never  came  across  such  an  old 
Turk.  How  you  have  spoiled  him.  If  he  isn't  pleased,  he 
won't  take  the  trouble  to  answer  you  a  word.  I  was  very  near 
telling  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  But  he  looked  all  the  more. 
I  believe  he  would  poison  Harry  if  he  came  here.  What  can 
have  made  him  hate  him  so?" 

"  He  is  jealous  of  him.  Mary  and  I  were  so  foolish  as  to 
praise  poor  Betty's  flowers  before  Simon,  and  he  has  never 


BROWN  PATNONU8.'  367 

forgiven  It.  I  think,  too,  that  he  suspects,  somehow,  that  we 
talked  about  getting  Harry  here.  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
but  I  quite  forgot  it." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  I  don't  think  I  can  do  any  good 
in  that  quarter,  so  now  I  shall  be  off  to  the  Grange,  to  see 
what  I  can  do  there." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Harry  is  afraid  of  being  turned  out  of  his  cottage. 
I  saw  how  it  worried  him,  thinking  about  it ;  so  I  shall  go  to 
the  Grange,  and  say  a  good  word  for  him.  Wurley  can^i  re- 
fuse, if  I  offer  to  pay  the  rent  myself — it's  only  six  pounds  a 
year.  Of  course  I  shan't  tell  Harry ;  and  he  will  pay  it  all  the 
same ;  but  it  may  make  all  the  difference  with  Wurley,  who  is 
a  regular  screw." 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Wurley  ?  " 

"  Yes,  j  ust  to  speak  to.  He  knows  all  about  me,  and  he 
will  be  very  glad  to  be  civil." 

"No  doubt  he  will;  but  I  don't  like  your  going  to  his 
house.  You  don't  know  what  a  bad  man  he  is.  Nobody  but 
men  on  the  turf,  and  that  sort  of  people,  go  there  now  ;  and  I 
believe  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  gambling  and  game  pre- 
serving." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  him.  The  county  people  are 
beginning  to  look  shy  at  him,  so  he'll  be  all  the  more  likely  to 
do  what  I  ask  him." 

"  But  you  won't  get  intimate  with  him  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  that." 

"  It  is  a  sad  house  to  go  to ;  I  hope  it  won't  do  you  any 
harm." 

"Ah,  Katie!  "  said  Tom,  with  a  smile,  not  altogether  cheer- 
ful, "I  don't  think  you  need  be  anxious  about  that.  When 
one  has  been  a  year  at  Oxford,  there  isn't  much  snow  left  to 
soil ;  so  now  I  am  off.  I  must  give  myself  plenty  of  time  to 
cook  Wurley." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  not  hinder  you,"  said  Katie.  "  I 
do  hope  you  will  succeed  in  some  of  your  kind  plans  for 
Harry."  ' 

"  I  shall  do  my  best ;  and  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  some- 
body besides  one's  self  to  think  about,  and  try  to  help — some 
poor  person — don't  you  think  so,  even  for  a  man  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  am  sure  you  can't  be  happy  without  it, 
any  more  than  I.  We  shouldn't  be  our  mother's  children  if 
we  could  be." 

"  Well,  good-by,  dear ;  you  can't  think  how  I  enjoy  these 
glimpses  of  you  and  your  work.  You  must  give  my  love  to 
Uncle  Robert." 


368  TOM  BROWX  AT  OXFORD. 

And  so  they  bade  one  another  adieu,  lovingly,  after  the 
manner  of  cousins,  and  Tom  rode  away  with  a  very  soft  place 
in  his  heart  for  his  Cousin  Katie.  It  was  not  the  least  the 
same  sort  of  passionate  feeling  of  worship  with  which  he  re- 
garded Mary.  The  two  feelings  could  lie  side  by  side  in  his 
heart  with  plenty  of  room  to  spare.  In  fact,  his  heart  had 
been  getting  so  big  in  the  last  few  weeks,  that  it  seemed  capa- 
ble of  taking  in  the  whole  of  mankind,  not  to  mention  woman. 
Still,  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  safely  asserted,  that,  had  matters 
been  in  at  all  a  more  forward  state,  and  could  she  have  seen 
exactly  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  Mary  would  probably 
have  objected  to  the  kind  of  affection  which  he  felt  for  his 
cousin  at  this  particular  time.  The  joke  about  cousinly  love  i? 
probably  as  old,  and  certainly  as  true,  as  Solomon's  proverbs. 
However,  as  matters  stood,  it  could  be  no  concern  of  Mary 
what  his  feelings  were  towards  Katie,  or  any  other  person. 

Tom  rode  in  at  the  lodge  gate  of  the  Grange  soon  after 
eleven  o'clock,  and  walked  his  horse  slowly  through  the  park, 
admiring  the  splendid  timber,  and  thinking  how  he  should 
break  his  request  to  the  owner  of  the  place-  But  his  thoughts 
were  interrupted  by  the  proceedings  of  the  rabbits,  which  were 
out  by  hundreds  all  along  the  sides  of  the  plantations,  and 
round  the  great  trees.  A  few  of  the  nearest  just  deigned  to 
notice  him  by  scampering  to  their  holes  under  the  roots  of  the 
antlered  oaks,  into  which  some  of  them  popped  with  a  disdain- 
ful kick  of  their  hind  legs,  Avhile  others  turned  round,  sat  up, 
and  looked  at  him.  As  he  neared  the  house,  he  passed  a  keep- 
er's cottage,  and  was  saluted  by  the  barking  of  dogs  from  the 
neighboring  kennel ;  and  the  young  pheasants  ran  about  round 
some  twenty  hen-coops,  which  were  arranged  along  opposite 
the  door  where  the  keeper's  children  were  playing.  The  pleas- 
ure of  watching  the  beasts  and  birds  kept  him  from  arranging 
his  thoughts,  and  he  reached  the  hall-door  without  having 
formed  the  plan  of  his  campaign. 

A  footman  answei-ed  the  bell,  who  doubted  whether  his 
master  was  down,  but  thought  he  would  see  the  gentleman  if 
he  would  send  in  his  name.  Whereupon  Tom  handed  in  hh, 
card ;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  a  rakish-looking  stable-boy  came 
round  for  his  horse,  and  the  butler  appeared,  with  his  master's 
compliments,  and  a  request  that  he  would  step  into  the  break- 
fast-room. Tom  followed  this  portly  personage  through  the 
large,  handsome  hall,  on  the  walls  of  which  hung  a  buff  coat 
or  two  and  some  old-fashioned  arms,  and  large  paintings  of 
dead  game  and  fruit — through  a  drawing-room,  the  furniture 
of  which  was  all  covered  up  in  melancholy  cases — into  the 


BROWN  PATRONUS. 

breakfast-parlor,  where  the  owner  of  the  mansion  was  seated 
at  table  in  a  lounging  jacket.  He  was  a  man  of  forty,  or 
thereabouts,  who  would  have  been  handsome,  but  for  the 
animal  look  about  his  face.  His  cheeks  were  beginning  to 
fall  into  chops,  his  full  lips  had  a  liquorish  look  about  them, 
and  bags  were  beginning  to  form  under  his  light  blue  eyes. 
His  hands  were  very  white  and  delicate,  and  shook  a  little  as 
he  poured  out  his  tea ;  and  he  was  full  and  stout  in  body,  with 
small  shoulders,  and  thin  arms  and  legs  ;  in  short,  the  last  man 
whom  Tom  would  have  chosen  as  bow  in  a  pair  oar.  The  only 
part  of  him  which  showed  strength  were  his  dark  whiskers, 
which  were  abundant,  and  elaborately  oiled  and  curled.  The 
room  was  light  and  pleasant,  with  two  windows  looking  over 
the  park,  and  furnished  luxuriously,  in  the  most  modern  style, 
with  all  manner  of  easy-chairs  and  sofas.  A  glazed  case  or 
two  of  well-bound  books  showed  that  some  former  owner  had 
cared  for  such  things  ;  but  the  doors  had,  probably,  never  been 
opened  in  the  present  reign.  The  master,  and  his  usual  visit- 
ors, found  sufficient  food^or  the  mind  in  the  Racing  Calendar, 
Boxiana,  the  Adventures  of  Corinthian  Tom,  and  JBelVs  Life, 
which  lay  on  a  side  table ;  or  in  the  pictures  and  prints  of 
racers,  opera  dancers,  and  steeple-chases,  which  hung  in  pro- 
fusion on  the  walls.  The  breakfast-table  was  beautifully 
appointed,  in  the  matter  of  China  and  plate ;  and  delicate  little 
rolls,  neat  pats  of  butter  in  ice,  and  two  silver  hot  dishes  con- 
taining curry  and  broiled  salmon,  and  a  plate  of  fruit,  piled  in 
tempting  profusion,  appealed,  apparently  in  vain,  to  the  appe- 
tite of  the  lord  of  the  feast. 

"  Mr.  Brown,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  ushering  in  our  hero  to 
his  master's  presence. 

"  Ah,  Brown,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  here,"  said  Mr. 
Wurley,  standing  up  and  holding  out  his  hand.  "  Have  any 
breakfast?" 

"  Thank  you,  no ;  I  have  breakfasted,"  said  Tom,  somewhat 
astonished  at  the  intimacy  of  the  greeting ;  but  it  was  his  cue 
to  do  the  friendly  thing,  so  he  shook  the  proffered  hand,  which 
felt  very  limp,  and  sat  down  by  the  table,  looking  pleasant. 

"Ridden  from  home  this  morning?"  said  Mr.  Wurley, 
picking  over  daintily  some  of  the  curry  to  which  he  had  helped 
himself. 

"  Xo  ;  I  was  at  my  uncle's,  at  Englebourn,  last  night.  It  is 
very  little  out  of  the  way,  so  I  thought  I  would  just  call  on  my 
road  home." 

"  Quite  right.  I'm  very  glad  you  came  without  ceremony. 
People  about  here  are  so  d— d  full  of  ceremony.  It  don't  suit 
rue  all  that  humbug.  But  I  wish,  you'd  just  pick  a  bit." 


370  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Thank  you.  Then  I  will  eat  some  fruit,"  said  Tom,  help- 
ing himself  to  some  of  the  freshly  picked  grapes ;  "  how  very 
fine  these  are  !  " 

•'  Yes,  I'm  open  to  back  my  houses  against  the  field  for  twenty 
miles  round.  This  curry  isn't  fit  for  a  pig.  Take  it  out,  and 
tell  the  cook  so."  The  butler  solemnly  obeyed,  while  his  mas- 
ter went  on  with  one  of  the  frequent  oaths  with  which  he 
garnished  his  conversation.  "You're  right,  they  can't  spoil 
the  fruit.  They're  a  set  of  skulking  devils,  are  servants.  They 
think  of  nothing  but  stuffing  themselves,  and  how  they  can 
cheat  you  most,  and  do  the  least  work."  Saying  which,  he 
helped  himself  to  some  fruit ;  and  the  two  eat  their  grapes  for 
a  short  time  in  silence.  But  even  fruit  seemed  to  pall  quickly 
on  him,  and  he  pushed  away  his  plate.  The  butler  came  back 
with  a  silver  tray,  with  soda  water,  and  a  small  decanter  of 
brandy,  and  long  glasses  on  it. 

"  Won't  you  have  something  after  your  ride  ?"  said  the  host 
to  Tom ;  "  some  soda  water,  with  a  dash  of  bingo  clears  one's 
head  in  the  morning." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Tom,  smiling ;  "  it's  bad  for  training." 

"Ah,  you  Oxford  men  are  all  for  training,"  said  his  host, 
drinking  greedily  of  the  foaming  mixture  which  the  butler 
handed  to  him.  "  A  glass  of  bitter  ale  is  what  you  take,  eh  ? 
I  know.  Get  some  ale  for  Mr.  Brown." 

Tom  felt  that  it  would  be  uncivil  to  refuse  this  orthodox 
offer,  and  took  his  beer  accordingly,  after  which  his  host  pro- 
duced a  box  of  Hudson's  Regalias,  and  proposed  to  look  at  the 
stables.  So  they  lighted  their  cigars,  and  went  out.  Mr. 
Wurley  had  taken  of  late  to  the  turf,  and  they  inspected  several 
young  horses  which  were  entered  for  country  stakes.  Tom 
thought  them  weedy-looking  animals,  but  patiently  listened  to 
their  praises  and  pedigrees,  upon  which  his  host  was  eloquent 
enough  ;  and  rubbing  up  his  latest  readings  in  Bdfs  Life,  and 
the  racing  talk  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hearing  in 
Drysdale's  rooms,  managed  to  hold  his  own,  and  asked,  with  a 
grave  face,  about  the  price  of  the  Coronation  colt  for  the  next 
Derby,  and  whether  Scott's  lot  was  not  the  right  thing  to  stand 
on  for  the  St.  Leger,  thereby  raising  himself  considerably  in  his 
host's  eyes.  There  were  no  hunters  in  the  stable,  at  which 
Tom  expressed  his  surprise.  In  reply,  Mr.  Wurley  abused  the 
county,  and  declared  that  it  was  not  worth  riding  across,  the 
fact  being  that  he  had  lost  his  nerve,  and  that  the  reception 
which  he  was  beginning  to  meet  with  in  the  field,  if  he  came 
oarae  out  by  chance,  was  of  the  coldest. 

From  the  stables  they  strolled  to  the  keeper's  cottage,  where 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  371 

Mr.  Wurley,  called  for  some  buckwheat  and  Indian  corn,  and 
began  feeding  the  young  pheasants,  which  were  running  about 
almost  like  barn-door  fowls  close  to  them. 

"  We've  had  a  good  season  for  the  young  birds,"  he  said ; 
"  my  fellow  knows  that  part  of  his  business,  d — n  him,  and 
don't  lose  many.  You  had  better  bring  your  gun  over  in 
October ;  we  shall  have  a  week  in  the  covers  early  in  the 
month." 

"  Thank  you,  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  said  Tom ;  "  but  you 
don't  shoot  these  birds  ?  " 

"  Shoot  'em  !  what  the  devil  should  I  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  they're  so  tame  I  thought  you  just  kept  them  about 
the  house  for  breeding.  I  don't  care  so  much  for  pheasant 
shooting ;  I  like  a  good  walk  after  a  snipe,  or  creeping  along  to 
get  a  wild  duck,  much  better.  There's  some  sport  in  it,  or 
even  in  partridge  shooting  with  a  couple  of  good  dogs,  now — " 

"  You're  quite  wrong.  There's  nothing  like  a  good  dry  ride 
in  a  cover  with  lots  of  game,  and  a  fellow  behind  to  load  for 
you." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  I  prefer  the  open." 

"You've  no  covers  over  your  way,  have  you?" 

"  Not  many." 

"  I  thought  so.  You  wait  till  you've  had  a  good  day  in  my 
covers,  and  you  won't  care  a  d — n  for  quartering  all  day  over 
wet  turnips.  Besides,  this  sort  of  thing  pays.  They  talk 
about  pheasants  costing  a  guinea  a  head  on  one's  table.  It's 
d — d  stuff ;  at  any  rate,  mine  don't  cost  me  much.  In  fact,  I 
say  it  pays,  and  I  can  prove  it." 

"  But  you  feed  your  pheasants  ?  " 

"Yes,  just  round  the  house  for  a  few  weeks,  and  I  sow  a 
little  buckwheat  in  the  covers.  But  they  have  to  keep  them- 
selves pretty  much,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Don't  the  farmers  object?" 

"  Yes,  d — n  them ;  they're  never  satisfied.  But  they  don't 
grumble  to  me  /  they  know  better.  There  are  a  dozen  fellows 
ready  to  take  any  farm  that's  given  up,  and  they  know  it. 
Just  get  a  beggar  to  put  a  hundred  or  two  into  the  ground, 
and  he  won't  quit  hold  in  a  hurry.  Will  you  play  a  game  at 
billiards?" 

The  turn  which  their  conversation  had  taken  hitherto  had 
offered  no  opening  to  Tom  for  introducing  the  object  of  his 
visit,  and  he  felt  less  and  less  inclined  to  come  to  the  point. 
He  looked  his  host  over  and  over  again,  and  the  more  he 
looked  the  less  he  fancied  asking  anything  like  a  favor  of  him. 
However,  as  it  had  to  be  done,  he  thought  he  couldn't  do 


372  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD: 

better  than  fall  into  his  ways  for  a  few  hours,  and  watch  for  a 
chance.  The  man  seemed  good-natured  in  his  way ;  and  all 
his  belongings — the  fine  park  and  house,  and  gardens  and 
stables — were  not  without  their  effect  on  his  young  guest.  It 
is  not  given  to  many  men  of  twice  his  age  to  separate  a  man 
from  his  possessions,  and  look  at  him  apart  from  them.  So  ho 
yielded  easily  enough,  and  they  went  to  billiards  in  a  fine 
room  opening  out  of  the  hall ;  and  Tom,  who  was  very  fond  of 
the  game,  soon  forgot  everything  in  the  pleasure  of  playing  on 
such  a  table. 

It  was  not  a  bad  match.  Mr.  Wurley  understood  the  game 
far  better  than  his  guest,  and  could  give  him  advice  as  to  what 
side  to  put  on  and  how  to  play  for  cannons.  This  he  did  in  a 
patronizing  way,  but  his  hand  was  unsteady  and  his  nerve  bad. 
Tom's  good  eye  and  steady  hand,  and  the  practice  he  had 
had  at  the  St.  Ambrose  pool-table,  gave  him  considerable 
advantage  in  the  hazards.  And  so  they  played  on,  Mr.  Wurley 
condescending  to  bet  only  half  a  crown  a  game,  at  first  giving 
ten  points,  and  then  five,  at  which  latter  odds  Tom  managed  to 
be  two  games  abead  when  the  butler  announced  lunch  at  two 
o'clock. 

"  I  think  I  must  order  my  horse,"  said  Tom,  putting  on  his 
coat. 

"  No,  d — n  it,  you  must  give  me  my  revenge.  I'm  always 
five  points  better  after  lunch,  and  after  dinner  I  could  give  you 
fifteen  points.  Why  shouldn't  you  stop  and  dine  and  sleep  ? 
I  expect  some  men  to  dinner." 

"  Thank  you,  I  must  get  home  to-day." 

"I  should  like  you  to  taste  my  mutton;  I  never  kill  it  under 
five  years  old.  You  don't  get  that  every  day." 

Tom,  however,  was  proof  against  the  mutton ;  but  consented 
to  stay  till  towards  the  hour  when  the  other  guests  were  ex- 
pected, finding  that  his  host  had  a  decided  objection  to  being 
left  alone.  So  after  lunch,  at  which  Mr.  Wurley  drank  the 
better  part  of  a  bottle  of  old  sherry  to  steady  his  nerves,  they 
returned  again  to  billiards  and  Hudson's  Regalias. 

They  played  on  for  another  hour ;  and  though  Mr.  Wurley's 
hand  was  certainly  steadier,  the  luck  remained  with  Tom.  He 
was  now  getting  rather  tired  of  playing,  and  wanted  to  be 
leaving,  and  he  began  to  remember  the  object  of  his  visit  again. 
But  Mr.  Wurley  was  nettled  at  being  beaten  by  a  boy,  as  he 
counted  his  opponent,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  leaving  off.  So 
Tom  played  on  carelessly  game  after  game,  and  was  soon  again 
only  two  games  ahead.  Mr.  Wurley's  temper  was  recovering, 
and  now  Tom  protested  that  he  must  go.  Just  one  game  more 


BRO  WN  PA  TRONl'S.  373 

his  host  urged,  and  Tom  consented.  Wouldn't  he  play  for  a 
sovereign  ?  No.  So  they  played  double  or  quits ;  and  after  a 
sharp  struggle  Mr.  Wurley  won  the  game,  at  which  he  was 
highly  elated,  and  talked  again  grandly  of  the  odds  he  could 
give  after  dinner. 

Tom  felt  that  it  was  now  or  never,  and  so  as  he  put  on  his 
coat,  he  said, — 

"  Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  a  very  pleasant  day, 
Mr.  Wurley." 

"  I  hope  you'll  come  over  again,  and  stay  and  sleep.  I  shall 
always  be  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  so  cursed  hard  to  keep  some- 
body always  going  in  the  country." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  should  like  to  come  again.  But  now  I  want 
to  ask  a  favor  of  you  before  I  go." 

"  Eh,  well,  what  is  it  ? "  said  Mr.  Wurley,  whose  face  and 
manner  became  suddenly  anything  but  encouraging. 

"  There's  that  cottage  of  yours,  the  one  at  the  corner  of  En- 
glebourn  Copse,  next  the  village." 

"  The  woodman's  house,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Wurley. 

"  The  tenant  is  dead,  and  I  want  you  to  let  it  to  a  friend  of 
mine ;  I'll  take  care  the  rent  is  paid." 

Mr.  Wurley  pricked  up  his  ears  at  this  announcement.  He 
gave  a  sharp  look  at  Tom ;  and  then  bent  over  the  table,  made 
a  stroke,  and  said,  "Ah,  I  heard  the  old  woman  was  dead. 
Who's  your  friend,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  mean  her  son,"  said  Tom,  a  little  embarrassed  ; 
"  he's  an  active  young  fellow,  and  will  make  a  good  tenant,  I'm 
sure." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Mr.  Wurley,  with  a  leer ;  "  and  I  suppose 
there's  a  sister  to  keep  house  for  him,  eh?" 

"No,  but  he  wants  to  get  married." 

"Wants  to  get  married,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Wurley,  with  an- 
other leer  and  oath.  "  You're  right ;  that's  a  deal  safer  kind 
of  thing  for  you." 

*  "Yes,"  said  Tom,  resolutely  disregarding  the  insinuation 
'  which  he  could  not  help  feeling  was  intended ;  "  it  will  keep 
him  steady,  and  if  he  can  get  the  cottage  it  might  make  all  the 
difference.  There  wouldn't  be  much  trouble  about  the  mar- 
riage, then,  I  dare  say." 

"  You'll  find  it  a  devilish  long  way.  You're  quite  right, 
mind  you,  not  to  get  them  settled  close  at  home  ;  but  Engle- 
bourn  is  too  far  off,  I  should  say." 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  me?" 

"  Oh,  you're  tired  of  her !  I  see.  Perhaps  it  won't  be  too 
far,  then." 


374  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Tired  of  her !  who  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha  1  "  said  Mr.  Wurley,  looking  up  from  the  table 
over  which  he  was  leaning,  for  he  went  on  knocking  the 
balls  about;  "devilish  well  acted.  But  you  needn't  try  to 
come  the  old  soldier  over  me.  D — n  it,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  coming  the  old  soldier.  I 
only  asked  you  to  let  the  cottage,  and  I  will  be  responsible  for 
the  rent.  I'll  pay  in  advance  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  you  want  me  to  let  the  cottage  for  you  to  put  in  this 
girl." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Tom,  interrupting  him,  and 
scarcely  able  to  keep  his  temper,  "  I  told  you  it  was  for  this 
young  Winburn." 

"  Of  course  you  told  me  so.     Ha,  ha  !  " 

"  And  you  don't  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Come  now,  all's  fair  in  love  and  war.  But  d — n  it,  you 
needn't  be  mealy-mouthed  with  me.  You  don't  mind  his  liv- 
ing there ;  he's  away  at  work  all  day,  eh  ?  and  his  wife  stays  at 
home." 

"  Mr.  Wurley,  I  give  you  my  honor  I  never  saw  the  girl  in 
my  life  that  I  know  of,  and  I  don't  know  that  she  will  marry 
him." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  your  friend  for,  then  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Wurley,  stopping  and  staring  at  Tom,  curiosity  beginning  to 
mingle  with  his  look  of  cunning  unbelief. 

"  Because  I  meant  just  what  I  said." 

«*  And  the  friend,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  several  times  that  this  young  Winburn  is 
the  man." 

"  What,  your  friend?" 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  said  Tom ;  and  he  felt  himself  getting 
red  at  having  to  call  Harry  his  friend  in  such  company.  Mr. 
Wurley  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  took  his 
leg  off  the  billiard  table,  and  came  round  to  Tom  with  the 
sort  of  patronizing  air  with  which  he  had  lectured  him  on  bil- 
liards. 

"  I  say,  Brown,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,"  he  said. 
K  You're  a  young  fellow,  and  haven't  seen  anything  of  the 
world.  Oxford's  all  very  well,  but  it  isn't  the  world.  Now  I 
tell  you,  a  young  fellow  can't  do  himself  greater  harm  than 
getting  into  low  company  and  talking  as  you  have  been  talk- 
ing. L> — n  it,  man,  it  might  ruin  you  in  the  county  !  That 
•ort  of  radical  gtuff  won't  do,  you  know,  calling  a  farm.laborer 
your  friend.'* 


SHOWN  PATRONUS.  375 

Tom  chafed  at  this  advice  from  a  man  who  he  we<7  knew 
was  notoriously  in  the  habit  of  entertaining  at  his  house,  and 
living  familiarly  with,  betting  men,  and  trainers,  and  all  the 
riff-raff  of  the  turf.  But  he  restrained  himself  by  a  consider- 
able effort,  and  instead  of  retorting,  as  he  felt  inclined  to  do, 
said,  with  an  attempt  to  laugh  it  off,  "  Thank  you,  I  don't 
think  there's  much  fear  of  my  turning  radical.  But  will  you 
let  me  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  My  agent  manages  all  that.  We  talked  about  pnlHng  it 
down.  The  cottage  is  in  my  preserves,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
have  some  poaching  fellow  there  to  be  sneaking  out  at  night 
after  my  pheasants." 

"  But  his  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  lived  there." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  it's  my  cottage." 

"  But  surely,  that  gives  him  a  claim  to  it." 

"D — nit;  it's  my  cottage.  You're  not  going  to  tell  me  I 
mayn't  do  what  I  like  with  it,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  only  said  that  his  family,  having  lived  there  so  long, 
gives  him  a  claim." 

"A  claim  to  what?  These  are  some  more  of  your  cursed 
radical  notions.  I  think  they  might  teach  you  something  bet- 
ter at  Oxford." 

Tom  was  now  perfectly  cool,  but  withal  in  such  a  tremen- 
dous fury  of  excitement  that  he  forgot  the  interests  of  his  client 
altogether. 

"I  came  here,  sir,"  he  said,  very  quietly  and  slowly,  "not 
to  request  your  advice  on  my  own  account,  or  your  opinion  on 
the  studies  of  Oxford,  valuable  as  no  doubt  they  are  :  I  eame 
to  ask  you  to  let  this  cottage  to  me,  and  I  wish  to  have  your 
answer." 

"  I'll  be  d — d  if  I  do ;  there's  my  answer." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  "  then  I  have  only  to  wish  you  good- 
morning.  I  am  sorry  to  have  wasted  a  day  in  the  company  of 
a  man  who  sets  up  for  a  country  gentleman  with  the  tongue  of 
a  Thames  bargee,  and  the  heart;  of  a  Jew  pawnbroker." 

Mi\  Wurley  rushed  to  the  bell  and  rang  it  furiously. 

"By  — !"  he  almost  screamed,  shaking  his  fist  at  Tom, 
"  I'll  have  you  horse-whipped  out  of  my  house ; "  and  then 
poured  forth  a  flood  of  uncomplimentary  slang,  ending  in  an- 
other pull  at  the  bell,  and  "  By  — I'll  have  you  horse-whipped 
out  of  my  house." 

"  You  had  better  try  it  on — you  and  your  flunkies  together," 
said  Tom,  taking  a  cigar-case  out  of  his  pocket  and  lighting  up, 
the  most  defiant  and  exasperating  action  he  could  think  of  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  "  Here's  one  of  them,  so  I'll  leave 
you  to  give  him  his  or^rs,  and  wait  five  minutes  in  the  hall, 


376  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOED 

where  there's  more  room."  And  so,  leaving  the  footman  gap- 
ing at  his  lord,  he  turned  on  hifl  heel,  with  the  air  of  Bernardo 
del  Carpio  after  he  had  bearded  King  Alphonso,  and  walked 
into  the  hall. 

He  heard  men  running  to  and  fro,  and  doors  banging  as  he 
stood  there  looking  at  the  old  buff-coats,  and  rather  thirsting 
for  a  fight.  Presently  a  door  opened,  and  the  portly  butler 
shuffled  in,  looking  considerably  embarrassed,  and  said, — 

"  Please,  sir,  to  go  out  quiet,  else  he'll  be  having  one  of  his 
fits." 

"  Your  master,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  nodding;  "D.  T.,  sir.  After 
one  of  his  rages  the  black  dog  comes,  and  it's  hawf ul  #x>rk  j 
so  I  hope  you'll  go,  sir." 

"  Very  well ;  of  course  I'll  go.  I  don't  want  to  give  him  a 
fit."  Saying  which,  Tom  walked  out  of  the  hall-door,  and 
leisurely  round  to  the  stables,  where  he  found  already  signs  of 
commotion.  Without  regarding  them,  he  got  his  horse  saddled, 
and  bridled  and  after  looking  him  over  carefully,  and  patting  him, 
and  feeling  his  girths,  in  the  yard,  in  the  presence  of  a  cluster 
of  retainers  of  one  sort  or  another,  who  were  gathering  from 
the  house  and  offices,  and  looking  sorely  puzzled  whether  to 
commence  hostilities  or  not,  mounted  and  walked  quietly  out. 

After  his  anger  had  been  a  little  cooled  by  the  fresh  air  of 
the  wild  country  at  the  back  of  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  which  he 
struck  into  on  his  way  home  soon  after  leaving  the  park,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that,  however  satisfactory  to  him- 
self the  results  of  his  encounter  with  this  unjust  landlord  might 
seem,  they  would  probably  prove  anything  but  agreeable  to 
the  would-be  tenant,  Harry  Winburn.  In  fact,  as  he  medi- 
tated on  the  matter,  it  became  clear  to  him  that  in  the  course 
of  one  morning  he  had  probably  exasperated  old  Simon  against 
his  aspirant  son-in-law,  and  put  a  serious  spoke  in  Harry's  love- 
wheel  on  the  one  hand  ;  while  on  the  other,  he  had  insured  his 
speedy  expulsion  from  his  cottage,  if  not  the  demolition  of 
that  building.  Whereupon  he  became  somewhat  low  under 
the  conviction  that  his  friendship,  which  was  to  work  such 
wonders  for  the  said  Harry,  and  deliver  him  out  of  all  his 
troubles,  had  as  yet  only  made  his  whole  look-out  in  the  world 
very  much  darker  and  more  dusty.  In  short,  as  yet  he  had 
managed  to  do  considerably  less  than  nothing  for  his  friend, 
and  he  felt  very  small  before  he  got  home  that  evening.  He 
was  far,  however,  from  being  prepared  for  the  serious  way  in 
which  his  father  looked  upon  his  day's  proceedings.  Mr. 
Brown  was  sitting  by  himself  after  dinner  when  his  son  turned 
*p,  and  had  to  drink  several  extra  glasses  of  port  to  keep  him- 


BROWN  PATRONUS.  377 

self  decently  composed,  while  Tom  narrated  the  events  of  the 
day  in  the  intervals  of  his  attacks  on  the  dinner,  which  was 
brought  back  for  him.  When  the  servant  had  cleared  away, 
Mr.  Brown  proceeded  to  comment  on  the  history  in  a  most 
decided  manner. 

Tom  was  wrong  to  go  to  the  Grange  in  the  first  instance  ; 
and  this  part  of  the  homily  was  amplified  by  a  discourse  on  the 
corruption  of  the  turf  in  general,  and  the  special  curse  of  small 
country  races  in  particular,  which  such  men  as  Wurley  sup- 
ported, and  which,  but  for  them,  would  cease.  Racing,  which 
used  to  be  the  pastime  of  great  people,  who  could  well  afford 
to  spend  a  few  thousands  a  year  on  their  pleasure,  had  now 
mostly  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  very  worst  and  lowest  men 
of  all  classes,  most  of  whom  would  not  scruple,  as  Mr.  Brown 
strongly  put  it,  to  steal  a  copper  out  of  a  blind  beggar's  hat. 
If  he  must  go,  at  any  rate  he  might  have  done  his  errand  and 
coine  away,  instead  of  staying  there  all  day  accepting  the 
man's  hospitality.  Mr.  Brown  himself  really  should  be  much 
embarrassed  to  know  what  to  do  if  the  man  should  happen  to 
attend  the  next  session  or  assizes.  But,  above  all,  having  ac- 
cepted his  hospitality,  to  turn  round  at  the  end  and  insult  the 
man  in  his  own  house !  This  seemed  to  Brown  p$re  a  mon- 
strous and  astounding  performance. 

This  new  way  of  putting  matters  took  Tom  entirely  by  sur- 
prise. He  attempted  a  defence,  but  in  vain.  His  father 
admitted  that  it  would  be  a  hard  case  if  Harry  were  turned 
out  of  his  cottage,  but  wholly  refused  to  listen  to  Tom's  en- 
deavors to  prove  that  a  tenant  in  such  a  case  had  any  claim  or 
right  as  against  his  landlord.  A  weekly  tenant  was  a  weekly 
tenant,  and  no  succession  of  weeks'  holding  could  make  him 
anything  more.  Tom  found  himself  rushing  into  a  line  of  ar- 
gument which  astonished  himself  and  sounded  wild,  but  in 
which  he  felt  sure  there  was  some  truth,  and  which,  therefore 
he  would  not  abandon,  though  his  father  was  evidently  an- 
noyed and  called  it  mere  mischievous  sentiment.  Each  was 
more  moved  than  he  would  liked  to  have  own ;  each  in  his  own 
heart  felt  aggrieved,  and  blamed  the  other  for  not  understand- 
ing him.  But  though  obstinate  on  the  general  question,  upon 
the  point  of  his  conduct  in  leaving  the  Grange,  Tom  was  fairly 
brought  to  shame,  and  gave  in  at  last,  and  expressed  his  sorrow, 
though  he  could  not  help  maintaining  that  if  his  father  could 
have  heard  what  took  place,  and  seen  the  man's  manner, 
he  would  scarcely  blame  him  for  what  he  had  said  and  done. 
Having  once  owned  himself  in  the  wrong  however,  there  was 
Toothing  for  it  but  to  write  an  apology,  the  composition  of 
which  was  as  disagreeable  a  task  as  had  ever  fallen  to  his  lot. 


378  TOM  3ROWN  AT  OXFORD. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV, 

Mt)5ev  &.yav. 

HAS  any  person,  of  any  nation  or  language,  found  out  and 
given  to  the  world  any  occupation,  work,  diversion,  or  pursuit, 
more  subtlely  dangerous  to  the  susceptible  youth  of  both  sexes 
than  that  of  nutting  in  pairs?  If  so,  who  ?  where  ?  what?  A 
few  years  later  in  life,  perhaps  district-visiting,  and  attending 
schools  together,  may  in  certain  instances  be  more  fatal  £  fcat  in 
the  first  bright  days  of  youth,  a  day's  nutting  against  the  world 
— a  day  in  autumn,  warm  enough  to  make  sitting  in  sheltered 
nooks,  in  the  woods,  where  the  sunshine  can  get  very  pleasant, 
and  yet  not  too  warm  to  make  exercise  uncomfortable — two 
young  people  who  have  been  thrown  much  together,  one  of 
whom  is  conscious  of  the  state  of  his  feelings  towards  the  other, 
and  is,  moreover,  aware  that  his  hours  are  numbered,  that  in 
a  fesv  days  at  furthest  they  will  be  separated  for  many  months, 
and  persons  in  authority  on  both  sides  are  beginning  to  suspect 
something  (as  is  apparent  from  the  difficulty  they  have  had 
in  jretting  away  together  at  all  on  this  same  afternoon) — here 
is  a  conjunction  of  persons  and  circumstances,  if  ever  there  was 
one  in  the  world,  which  is  surely  likely  to  end  in  a  catastrophe. 
Indeed,  so  obvious  to  the  meanest  capacity  is  the  danger  of  the 
situation  that,  as  Tom  had,  in  his  own  mind,  stated  his  charac- 
ter for  resolution  with  his  private  self  on  the  keeping  of  his 
secret  till  after  he  was  of  age,  it  is  hard  to  conceive  how  he  can 
have  been  foolish  enough  to  get  himself  into  a  hazel  copse  alone 
with  Miss  Mary  on  the  earliest  day  he  could  manage  it  after 
the  arrival  of  the  Porters,  on  their  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown. 
That  is  to  say,  it  would  be  hard  to  conceive  if  it  didn't  just  hap- 
pen to  be  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

For  the  first  twenty-four  hours  after  their  meeting  in  the 
home  of  his  father,  the  two  young  people,  and  Tom  in  particular, 
felt  very  uncomfortable.  Mary,  being  a  young  lady  of  very 
high  spirits,  and,  as  readers  m?y  probably  have  discovered,  much 
given  to  that  kind  of  conversation  which  borders  as  nearly 
upon  what  men  commonly  call  chaff  as  a  well-bred  girl  can 
venture  on,  was  annoyed  to  find  herself  quite  at  fault  in  all  her 
attempts  to  get  her  old  antagonist  of  Commemoration  to  show 
fight.  She  felt  in  a  moment  how  changed  his  manner  was,  and 
thought  it  by  no  means  changed  for  the  better.  As  for  Tom, 
he  felt  foolish  and  shy  at  first  to  an  extent  which  drove  him 
half  wild  ;  his  words  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  he  took  to  blush- 
ing again  like  a  boy  of  fourteen.  In  fact,  he  got  so  angry 
with  himself  that  he  rather  avoided  her  actual  presence,  Chough 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  379 

she  was  scarcely  a  moment  out  of  his  sight.  Mr.  Brown 
made  the  most  of  his  sun't>  retreat,  devoted  himself  most  gallant- 
ly to  Mary,  and  was  completely  captivated  by  the  first  night  of 
tbeir  arrival,  and  triumphed  over  his  wife  when  they  were 
alone  at  the  groundlessness  of  her  suspicions.  But  she  was  by 
no  means  so  satisfied  on  the  subject  as  her  husband. 

In  a  day  or  two,  however,  he  began  to  take  heart  of  grace, 
and  to  find  himself  oftener  at  Mary'g  side,  with  something  to 
say,  and  more  to  look.  But  now  she,  in  her  turn,  began  to  be 
embarrassed,  for  all  attempts  to  reestablish  their  old  footing 
failed  ;  and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  satisfactory  new  one 
remained  so  be  solved — so  for  the  present,  though  neither  of 
them  found  it  quite  satisfactory,  they  took  refuge  in  the 
presence  of  a  third  party,  and  attached  themselves  to  Katie, 
talking  at  one  another  through  her.  Nothing  could  exceed 
Katie's  judiciousness  as  a  medium  of  communication,  and 
through  her  a  better  understanding  began  to  establish  itself, 
and  the  visit  which  both  of  them  had  been  looking  forward  to 
so  eagerly,  seemed  likely,  after  all,  to  be  as  pleasant  in  fact  as 
it  had  been  in  anticipation.  As  they  became  more  at  ease,  the 
vigilance  of  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Porter  seemed  likely  to  re- 
vive. But  in  a  country  house  there  must  be  plenty  of  chances 
for  young  folk  who  mean  it  to  be  together,  and  so  they  found 
and  made  use  of  their  opportunities,  giving  at  the  same  time 
as  little  cause  to  their  natural  guardians  as  possible  for  any 
serious  interference.  The  families  got  on,  on  the  whole,  so 
well  together  that  the  visit  was  prolonged  from  the  original 
four  or  five  days  to  a  fortnight ;  and  this  time  of  grace  was 
drawing  to  a  close  when  the  event  happened  which  made  the 
Tisit  memorable  to  our  hero. 

On  the  morning  in  question,  Mr.  Brown  arranged  at  break- 
fast that  he  and  his  wife  should  drive  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  to 
make  calls  on  several  of  the  neighbors.  Tom  declared  his  in- 
tention of  taking  along  day  after  the  partridges,  and  the  young 
ladies  were  to  go  and  make  a  sketch  of  the  house  from  a  point 
which  Katie  had  chosen.  Accordingly,  directly  after  lunch- 
eon the  carriage  came  round,  and  the  elders  departed,  and  the 
young  ladies  started  together,  carrying  their  sketching  appara- 
tus with  them. 

It  was  probably  a  bad  day  for  scent,  for  they  had  not  been 
gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  Tom  came  home,  deposited  his 
gun,  and  followed  on  their  steps.  He  found  them  sitting  under 
the  lee  of  a  high  bank,  sufficiently  intent  on  their  drawings, 
but  neither  surprised  nor  sorry  to  find  that  he  had  altered  his 
mind  and  come  back  to  interrupt  them.  So  he  lay  down  near 


380  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

them,  and  talked  of  Oxford  and  Englebourn,  and  so  from  one 
thing  to  another,  till  he  got  upon  the  subject  of  nutting,  ana 
the  sylvan  beauties  of  a  neighboring  wood.  Mary  was  getting 
on  badly  with  her  drawing,  and  jumped  at  the  idea  of  a  ramble 
in  the  wood  ;  but  Katie  was  obdurate,  and  resisted  all  their 
solicitations  to  move.  She  suggested,  however,  that  they 
might  go,  and  as  Tom  declared  that  they  should  not  be  out  o*f 
call,  and  would  be  back  in  half  an  hour  at  furthest,  Mary 
consented,  and  they  left  the  sketcher,  and  strolled  together 
out  of  the  fields,  and  into  the  road,  and  so  through  a  gate  in- 
to the  wood.  It  was  a  pleasant  oak  wood.  The  wild  flowers 
were  over,  but  the  great  masses  of  ferns,  four  or  five  feet  high, 
made  a  grand  carpet  round  the  stems  of  the  forest  monarchs, 
and  a  fitting  couch,  for  here  and  there  one  of  them,  which  had 
been  lately  felled,  and  lay  in  fallen  majesty,  with  bare  shroud- 
ed trunk  awaiting  the  sawyers.  Further  on  the  hazel  under- 
wood stood  thickly  on  each  side  of  the  green  rides,  down  which 
they  sauntered  side  by  side.  Tom  talked  of  the  beauty  of  the 
wood  in  spring-time,  and  the  glorious  succession  of  coloring 
pale  yellow,  and  deep  blue  and  white,  and  purple,  which  the 
primroses,  and  hyacinths,  and  starwert,  and  fox-gloves  gave 
each  in  their  turn  in  the  early  year,  and  mourned  over  their  ab- 
sence. But  Mary  preferred  autumn,  and  would  not  agree 
with  him.  She  was  enthusiastic  for  ferns  and  heather.  He 
gathered  some  sprigs  of  the  latter  for  her,  from  a  little  sandy 
patch  which  they  passed,  and  some  more  for  his  own  button- 
hole ;  and  then  they  engaged  in  the  absorbing  pursuit  of  nut- 
ting, and  the  talk  almost  ceased.  He  caught  the  higher  branch- 
es, and  bent  them  down  to  her,  and  watched  her  as  she  gather- 
ed them,  and  wondered  nt  the  ease  and  grace  of  all  her  move- 
ments, and  the  unconscious  beauty  of  her  attitudes.  Soon  she 
became  more  enterprising  herself,  and  made  little  excursions 
into  the  copse,  surmounting  briers,  and  passing  through  tan' 
gled  places  like  a  Naiad,  before  he  could  be  there  to  help  her. 
And  so  they  went  on,  along  the  rides  and  through  the  copse, 
forgetting  Katie  and  time,  till  they  were  brought  up  by  the 
fence  on  the  further  side  of  the  wood.  The  ditch  was  on  the 
outside,  and  on  the  inside  a  bank  with  a  hedge  on  the  top,  full 
of  tempting  hazel  bushes.  She  clapped  her  hands  at  the  sight, 
and  declining  his  help,  stepped  lightly  up  the  bank,  and  began 
gathering.  He  turned  away  for  a  moment,  jumped  up  the  bank 
himself,  and  followed  her  exampl 

He  Avas  standing  up  in  the  hedge,  and  reaching  after  a  tempt- 
ing cluster  of  nuts,  when  he  heard  a  short,  sharp  cry  of  pain 
behind  him,  which  made  him  spring  backwards,  and  nearly  miss 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  381 

his  footing  as  he  came  to  the  ground.  Recovering  himself,  and 
turning  round,  he  saw  Mary  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  bank, 
writhing  in  pain. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant,  and  dreadfully  alarmed. 

"  Good  heavens  !  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  said. 

"  My  ankle  ! "  she  cried ;  and  the  effort  of  speaking  brought 
the  sudden  flush  of  pain  to  her  brow. 

"Oh!  what  can  I  do?" 

"  The  boot !  the  boot ' ''  she  said,  lean  ing  for  ward  to  unlace  it. 
and  then  sinking  back  against  the  bank.  "  It  is  so  painful ! 
I  hope  I  sha'n't  faint." 

Poor  Tom  could  only  clasp  his  handg  as  he  knelt  by  her,  and 
repeat," Oh,  what  can  I  do — what  can  I  do?" 

His  utter  bewilderment  presently  roused  Mary,  and  her  nat- 
ural, high  courage  was  beginning  to  master  the  pain. 

"  Have  you  a  knife?" 

"Yes — here,"  he  said,  pulling  one  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
opening  it ;  "  here  it  is." 

"  Please  cut  the  lace." 

Tom  with  beating  heart  and  trembling  hand  cut  the  lace, 
and  then  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Oh,  be  quick — cut  it  again ;  don't  be  afraid." 

He  cut  it  asrain ;  and  without  taking  hold  of  the  foot,  gent- 
ly pulled  out  the  ends  of  the  lace. 

She  again  leaned  forward,  and  tried  to  take  off  the  boot. 
But  the  pain  was  too  great,  and  she  sank  back,  and  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  flushed  face. 

"  May  I  try  ? — perhaps  I  could  do  it." 

"  Yes,  pray  do.  Oh,  I  can't  bear  the  pain  \ "  she  added,  next 
moment ;  and  Tom  felt  readv  to  hang  himself  for  having  been 
the  cause  of  it. 

"  You  must  cut  the  boot  off,  please." 

"But  perhaps  I  may  cut  you.     Do  you  really  mean  it?" 

w  Yes,  really.  There,  take  care.  How  your  hand  shakes. 
You  will  never  do  for  a  doctor." 

His  hand  did  shake  certainly.  He  had  cut  a  little  hole  in 
the  stocking  ;  but,  under  the  circumstances,  we  need  not  won- 
der— the  situation  was  new  and  trying!  Urged  on  by  her,  he 
cut  and  cut  away,  and,  at  last,  off  came  the  boot,  and  her  beau- 
tiful little  foot  lay  on  the  green  turf.  She  was  much  relieved 
at  once,  but  still  in  great  pain  ;  and  now  he  began  to  recover 
his  head 

"The  ankle  should  be  bound  up;  may  I  try?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  what  with  ?  " 

Tom  dived  into  his  shooting-coat  pocket,  and  produced  one 


TON  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

of  the  large  many-colored  neck-  wrappers  winch  were   fashion 
able  at  Oxford  in  those  days. 

"  How  lucky,"  he  said,  as  he  tore  it  into  strips.  "  I  think 
this  will  do.  Now,  you'll  stop  me,  won't  you,  if  I  hurt,  or 
don't  do  it  right?" 

u  Don't  be  afraid ;  I'm  much  better.  Bind  it  tight — tighter 
than  that." 

He  wound  the  strips  as  tenderly  as  he  could  round  her  foot 
and  ankle,  with  hands  all  alive  with  nerves,  and  wondering 
more  and  more  at  her  courage,  as  she  kept  urging  him  to  draw 
the  bandage  tighter  yet.  Then,  still  under  her  direction,  he 
fastened  and  pinned  down  the  ends  ;  and  as  he  was  rather  neat 
with  his  fingers,  from  the  practice  of  tying  flies  and  splicing 
rods  and  bats,  produced,  on  the  whole,  a  creditable  sort  of 
bandage.  Then  he  looked  up  at  her,  the  perspiration  standing 
on  his  forehead,  as  if  he  had  been  pulling  a  race,  and  said, — 
Will  that  do  ?  I'm  afraid  it's  very  awkward." 

"  Oh,  no ;  thank  you  so  much  !  But  I'm  so  sorry  you  have 
torn  your  handkerchief." 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  this  remark,  except  by  a  look. 
What  could  he  say,  but  that  he  would  gladly  have  torn  his  skin 
off  for  the  same  purpose,  if  it  would  have  been  of  any  use ; 
but  this  speech  did  not  seem  quite  the  thing  for  the  moment. 

"But  how  do  you  feel?  Is  it  very  painful?"  he  asked. 

"Rather.  But  don't  look  so  anxious.  Indeed,  it  is  very 
bearable.  But  what  are  we  to  do  now?  " 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  and  said,  with  something  like  a 
sigh, — 

"  Shall  I  run  home,  and  bring  the  servants  and  a  sofa,  or 
something  to  carry  you  on  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  left  here  alone." 

His  face  brightened  again. 

"  How  near  is  the  nearest  cottage  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  There's  none  nearer  than  the  one  which  we  passed  on  the 
road,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  you  know." 

"  Then  I  must  try  to  get  there.     You  must  help  me  up." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stooped  over  her,  doubting  how 
to  begin  helping  her.  He  had  never  felt  so  shy  in  his  life.  He 
held  out  his  hands. 

"  I  think  you  must  put  your  arm  round  me,"  she  said,  after 
looking  at  him  for  a  moment.  Her  woman's  instinct  was  satis- 
fied with  the  look.  He  lifted  her  on  to  her  feet. 

"  Now,  let  me  lean  on  your  arm.  There,  I  dare  say  I  shall 
manage  to  hobble  along  well  enough ; "  and  she  mad«  a  brave 
attempt  to  walk.  But  the  moment  the  injured  foot  touehed 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  383 

the  ground,  she  stopped  with  a  catch  of  her  breath,  and  a 
shiver,  which  went  through  Tom  like  a  knife ;  and  the  flush 
came  back  into  her  face,  and  she  would  have  fallen  had  he  not 
again  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  held  her  up.  "  I  am 
better  again  now,"  she  snid,  after  a  second  or  two. 

"But  Mary,  dear  Mary,  don't  try  to  walk  again,  for  my 
sake.  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  must  get  back  some- 
how." 

"  Will  you  let  me  carry  you  ?  " 

She  looked  in  his  face  again,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes»  and 
hesitated. 

"I  wouldn't  offer,  dear,  if  there  were  any  other  way,  J  ut 
you  musnt't  walk ;  indeed,  you  must  not ;  you  may  lame  your- 
self for  life." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
though  his  heart  was  beating  so  that  he  feared  she  would  hear  it. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said ;  "  but  I'm  very  heavy." 

So  he  lifted  her  gently,  and  stepped  off  down  the  ride,  carry- 
ing his  whole  world  in  his  arms,  in  an  indescribable  flutter  of 
joy  and  triumph  and  fear.  He  had  gone  some  forty  yards  or 
so,  when  he  staggered,  and  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  pray  put  me  down — pray  do  !  You'll  hurt  yourself. 
I'm  too  heavy." 

For  the  credit  of  muscular  Christianity,  one  must  say,  that 
it  was  not  her  weight,  but  the  tumult  in  his  own  inner  man 
which  made  her  bearer  totter.  Nevertheless,  if  one  is  wholly 
unused  to  the  exercise,  the  carrying  a  healthy  young  English 
girl  weighing  hard  on  eight  stone,  is  as  much  as  most  men 
can  conveniently  manage. 

*'  I'll  just  put  you  down  for  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  Now 
take  care  of  the  foot ; "  and  he  stooped,  and  placed  her  ten- 
derly against  one  of  the  oaks  which  bordered  the  ride,  stand- 
ing by  her  side  without  looking  at  her.  Neither  of  them 
spoke  for  a  minute.  Then  he  asked,  still  looking  away  down 
the  ride,  " How  is  the  foot?  " 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,"  she  answered,  cheerfully.  "  Now,  leave 
me  here,  and  go  for  help.  It  is  absurd  of  me  to  mind  being 
left ;  and  you  mustn't  carry  me  any  more. 

He  turned,  and  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment,  but  that  was 
enough- 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he  said. 

**  Yes ;  but  take  care.  Don't  go  far.  Stop  directly  you  feel 
tired." 

Then  he  lifted  her  again,  and  this  time  carried  her  without 


S84  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

faltering,  till  they  came  to  a  hillock  covered  with  soft  grass. 
Here  they  rested  again  ;  and  so  by  easy  stages  he  carried  her 
through  the  wood,  and  out  into  the  road,  to  the  nearest  cot- 
tage, neither  of  them  speaking. 

An  old  woman  came  to  the  door  in  answer  to  his  kick,  and 
went  off  into  ejaculations  of  pity  and  wonder  in  the  broadest 
Berkshire,  at  seeing  Master  Tom  and  his  burden.  But  he 
pushed  into  the  house  and  cut  her  short  with, — 

"Now,  Mrs.  Pike, don't  talk,  that's  a  dear  good  woman,  but 
bustle  about,  and  bring  that  arm-chair  here,  and  the  other  low 
one,  with  a  pillow  on  it,  for  the  young  lady's  foot  to  rest  on." 

The  old  woman  obeyed  his  injunctions, except  as  to  talking; 
and  while  she  placed  the  chairs  and  shook  up  the  pillow,  des- 
canted on  the  sovereign  virtues  of  some  green  oil  and  opodel- 
doc, which  was  as  good  as  a  charm  for  sprains  and  bruises. 

Mary  gave  him  one  grateful  look  as  he  lowered  her  tenderly 
and  reluctantly  into  the  chair,  and  then  spoke  cheerfully  to 
Mrs.  Pike,  who  was  foraging  in  a  cupboard,  to  find  if  there 
was  any  of  her  famous  specific  in  the  bottom  of  the  bottle.  As 
he  stood  up,  and  thought  what  to  do  next,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  distant  wheels,  and  looking  through  the  window  saw  the 
Carriage  coming  homewards.  It  was  a  sorrowful  sight  to  him. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Pike,"  he  said,  "  never  mind  the  oil.  Here's 
the  carriage  coming ;  just  step  out  and  stop  it." 

The  old  dame  scuttled  out  into  the  road.  The  carriage  was 
within  one  hundred  yards.  He  leaned  over  the  rough  arm- 
chair in  which  she  was  leaning  back,  looked  once  more  into 
ter  eyes ;  and  then,  stooping  forwards,  kissed  her  lips,  and  the 
next  moment  was  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Pike,  signalling^  the 
coachman  to  stop. 

In  the  bustle  which  followed  he  stood  aside,  and  watched 
Mary  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  She  never  looked  at  him, 
but  there  was  no  anger,  but  only  a  dreamy  look  in  her  sweet 
face,  which  seemed  to  him  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful 
than  ever  before.  Then  to  avoid  inquiries  and  to  realize  all 
that  had  passed  in  the  last  wonderful  three  hours,  he  slipped 
away  while  they  were  getting  her  into  the  carriage,  and  wan- 
dered back  into  the  wood,  pausing  at  each  of  their  halting- 
E  laces.  At  last,  he  reached  the  scene  of  the  accident,  and  here 
is  cup  of  happiness  was  likely  to  brim  over,  for  he  found  the 
mangled  little  boot  and  the  cut  lace,  and  securing  the  precious 
prize,  hurried  back  home,  to  be  in  time  for  dinner. 

Mary  did  not  come  down,  but  Katie,  the  only  person  of 
"whom  he  dared  to  inquire,  assured  him  that  she  was  doing 
famously.  The  dinner  was  very  embarrassing,  and  he  had  the 


TOM  VRO  \VN  A  T  OXFORD.  386 

greatest  difficulty  in  answering  the  searching  inquiries  of  his 
mother  and  Mrs.  Porter,  as  to  how,  when,  where,  and  in  whose 
presence  the  accident  had  happened.  As  soon  as  the  ladies 
rose,  he  left  his  father  and  Mr.  Porter  over  their  old  port  and 
politics,  and  went  out  in  the  twilight  into  the  garden,  burdened 
with  the  weight  of  sweet  thought.  He  felt  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  do— to  set  himself  quite  right  with  Mary ;  he  must 
epeaK  somehow,  that  night,  if  possible,  or  he  should  not  be 
comfortable  or  at  peace  with  his  conscience.  There  were  lights 
in  her  room.  He  guessed  by  the  shadows  that  she  was  lying 
on  a  couch  by  the  open  window,  round  which  the  other  ladies 
were  flitting.  Presently  lights  appeared  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  as  the  shutters  were  being  closed  he  saw  his  mother  and 
Mrs.  Porter  come  in,  and  sit  down  near  the  fire.  Listening  in- 
tently, he  heard  Katie  talking  in  a  low  voice  in  the  room  above, 
and  saw  her  head  against  the  light  as  she  sat  down  close  to  the 
window,  probably  at  the  head  of  the  couch  where  Mary  was 
lying.  Should  he  call  to  her?  If  he  did  how  could  he  say 
what  he  wanted  to  say  through  her? 

A  happy  thought  struck  him.  He  turned  to  the  flower-beds, 
hunted  about,  and  gathered  a  bunch  of  heliotrope,  hurried 
up  to  his  room,  took  tfle  sprig  of  heather  out  of  his  shooting- 
coat,  tied  them  together,  caught  up  a  reel  and  line  from  his 
table,  and  went  into  the  room  over  Mary's.  He  threw  the  win- 
dow open,  and  leaning  out  said  gently,  "  Katie."  No  answer. 
He  repeated  the  name  louder.  No  answer  still,  and  leaning 
out  yet  further  he  saw  that  the  window  had  been  shut.  He 
lowered  the  bunch  of  flowers,  and  swinging  it  backwards  and 
forwards  made  it  strike  the  window  below — once,  twice ;  at 
the  third  stroke  he  heard  the  window  open. 

"Katie,"  he  whispered  again,  "is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,  where  are  you  ?     What  is  this  ?" 

"For  her,"  he  said  in  the  same  whisper.  Katie  untied  the 
flowers,  and  he  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  again  called 
her  name,  and  she  answered. 

"Has  she  the  flowers?" 

"  Yes,  and  she  sends  you  her  love,  and  says  you  are  to  go 
down  to  the  drawing-room  ;  "  and  with  that  the  window  closed, 
and  he  went  down  with  a  lightened  conscience  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  after  joining  in  the  talk  by  the  fire  for  a  few 
minutes,  took  a  book,  and  sat  down  at  the  further  side  of  the 
table.  Whether  he  ever  knew  what  the  book  was  maybe  fair- 
ly questioned,  but  to  all  appearances  he  was  deep  in  the  peru- 
sal of  it  till  the  tea  and  Katie  arrived,  and  the  gentlemen  from 
the  dining-room.  Then  he  tried  to  join  in  the  conversation 

25 


386  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

again,  but,  on  the  whole,  life  was  a  burden  to  him  that  night 
till  he  could  get  fairly  away  to  his  own  room,  and  commune 
with  himself,  gazing  at  the  yellow  harvest  moon  with  his  elbows 
on  the  window-sill. 

The  ankle  got  well  very  quickly,  and  Mary  was  soon  going 
about  with  a  gold-headed  stick,  which  had  belonged  to  Mr. 
Brown's  father,  and  a  limp  which  Tom  thought  the  most  beau- 
tiful movement  he  had  ever  seen.  But  though  she  was  about 
a<?ain,  by  no  amount  of  patient  vigilance  could  he  now  get  the 
chance  of  speaking  to  her  alone.  But  he  consoled  himself  with 
the  thought  that  she  must  understand  him ;  if  he  had  spoken, 
he  couldn't  have  made  himself  clearer. 

And  now  the  Porters'  visit  was  all  but  over,  and  Katie  and 
her  father  left  for  Englebourn.  The  Porters  were  to  follow 
the  next  day,  and  promised  to  drive  round  and  stop  at  the 
Rectory  for  lunch.  Tom  petitioned  for  a  seat  in  their  carriage 
to  Englebourn.  He  had  been  devoting  himself  to  Mrs.  Porter 
ever  since  the  accident,  and  had  told  her  a  good  deal  about  his 
own  early  life.  His  account  of  his  early  friendship  for  Betty 
and  her  son,  and  the  renewal  of  it  on  the  day  he  left  Barton 
Manor,  had  interested  her,  and  she  was  moreover  not  insensible 
to  his  assiduous  and  respectful  attentions  to  herself,  which  had 
of  late  been  quite  marked :  she  was  touched,  too,  at  his  anxiety 
to  hear  all  about  her  boys,  and  how  they  were  going  on  at 
school.  So  on  the  whole  Tom  was  in  high  favor  with  her,  and 
she  most  graciously  assented  to  his  occupying  the  fourth  seat 
in  their  barouche.  She  was  not  without  her  suspicions  of  the 
real  state  of  the  case  with  him,  but  his  behavior  had  been  so 
discreet  that  she  had  no  immediate  fears,  and  after  all,  if  any- 
thing should  come  of  it  some  years  hence,  her  daughter  might 
do  worse.  In  the  mean  time  she  would  see  plenty  of  society  in 
London;  where  Mr.  Porter's  vocations  kept  him  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  year. 

They  reached  Englebourn  after  a  pleasant  long  morning's 
drive ;  and  Tom  stole  a  glance  at  Mary,  and  felt  that  she  un- 
derstood him,  as  he  pointed  out  the  Hawk's  Lynch  and  the 
clump  of  Scotch  firs  to  her  mother ;  and  told  how  you  might 
see  Barton  from  the  top  of  it,  and  how  he  loved  the  place,  and 
the  old  trees,  and  the  view. 

Katie  was  at  the  door  ready  to  receive  them,  and  carried  off 
Mary  and  Mrs.  Porter  to  her  own  room.  Tom  walked  round 
the  garden  with  Mr.  Porter,  and  then  sat  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  felt  melancholy.  He  roused  himself,  however,  when  the 
ladies  came  down  "and  luncheon  was  announced.  Mary  was 
full  of  her  reminiscences  of  the  Englebourn  people,  and  espe- 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  387 

oially  of  poor  Mrs.  Winburn  and  her  son,  in  whom  she  had  be- 
gun to  take  a  deep  interest,  perhaps  from  overhearing  some  of 
Tom's  talk  to  her  mother.  So  Harry's  story  was  canvassed 
again,  and  Katie  told  thorn  how  he  had  been  turned  out  of  his 
cottage,  and  how  anxious  she  was  as  to  what  would  come  of  it. 

"  And  is  he  going  to  marry  your  gardener's  daughter  after 
all??'  asked  Mrs.  Porter. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  not  much  chance  of  it,"  said  Katie; 
"  I  cannot  make  Martha  out." 

"  Is  she  at  home,  Katie  ?  "  asked  Mary ;  "  I  should  like  to  see 
her  again.  I  took  a  great  fancy  to  see  her  when  I  was  here." 

"  Yes,  she  is  at  the  lodge.  We  will  walk  there  after  luncheon." 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  carriage  should  pick  them  up  at 
the  lodge :  and  soon  after  luncheon,  while  the  horses  were 
being  put  to,  the  whole  party  started  for  the  lodge  after  saying 
good-by  to  Mr.  Winte.r,  who  retired  to  his  room  much  fatigued 
by  his  unwonted  hospitality. 

Old  Simon's  wife  answered  their  knock  at  the  lodge  door, 
and  they  all  entered,  and  Mrs .  Porter  paid  her  compliments  on 
the  cleanliness  of  the  room. 

Then  Mary  said,  "  Is  your  daughter  at  home,  Mrs.  Gibbons  ?  " 

"Ees,  miss,  someweres  handy,"  replied  Mrs.  Gibbons;  "her 
hav'n't  been  gone  out  not  dree  minutes." 

"  I  should  like  so  much  to  say  good-by  to  her,"  said  Mary. 
"We  shall  be  leaving  Barton  soon,  and  I  shall  not  see  her  again 
till  next  summer." 

"  Lor  bless'ee,  miss,  'tis  wenygoodov  ee,"  said  the  old  dame 
very  proud  ;  "  do'ee  set  down  then  while  I  gives  her  a  call." 
And  with  that  she  hurried  out  of  the  door  which  led  through 
the  back  kitchen  into  the  little  yard  behind  the  lodge,  and  the 
next  moment  they  heard  her  calling  out, — 

*'  Patty,  Patty,  whar  bist  got  to  ?  Come  in,  and  see  th« 
gentle-folk." 

The  name  which  the  old  woman  was  calling  out  made  Tom 
start." 

"  I  thought  you  said  her  name  was  Martha,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter. 

"  Patty  is  short  for  Martha  in  Berkshire,"  said  Katie,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  And  Patty  is  such  a  pretty  name,  I  wonder  you  don't  call 
her  Patty,"  said  Mary. 

"  We  had  a  housemaid  of  the  same  name  a  year  or  two  ago, 
and  it  made  such  a  confusion — and  when  one  once  gets  used  to 
a  name  it  is  so  hard  to  change — so  she  has  always  been  called 
Martha." 


388  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Well,  I'm  all  for  Patty;  don't  you  think  so?"  said  Mary, 
turning  to  Tom. 

The  sudden  introduction  of  a  name  which  he  had  such  rea- 
sons for  remembering,  the  memories  and  fears  which  it  called 
up,  above  all,  the  bewilderment  which  lie  felt  at  hearing  it 
tossed  about  and  canvassed  by  Mary  in  his  presence,  as  if  there 
were  nothing  more  in  it  than  in  any  other  name,  confused  him 
so  that  he  floundered  and  blundered  in  his  attempt  to  answer, 
and  at  last  gave  it  up  altogether.  She  was  surprised,  and 
looked  at  him  inquiringly.  His  eyes  fell  before  hers,  and  he 
turned  away  to  the  window,  and  looked  at  the  carriage,  which 
had  just  drawn  up  at  the  lodge  door.  He  had  scarcely  time  to 
think  how  foolish  he  was  to  be  so  moved,  when  he  heard  the 
back-kitchen  door  opened  again,  and  the  old  woman  and  her 
daughter  come  in.  He  turned  round  sharply,  and  there  on  the 
floor  of  the  room,  courtesying  to  the  ladies,  stood  the  ex-bar- 
maid of  the  Choughs.  His  first  impulse  was  to  hurry  away, 
she  was  looking  down,  and  he  might  not  be  recognized  ;  his 
next  to  stand  his  ground,  and  take  whatever  might  come. 
Mary  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand,  saying  that  she  could 
not  go  away  without  coming  to  see  her.  Patty  looked  up  to 
answer,  and  glancing  round  the  room  caught  sight  of  him. 

He  stepped  forward,  and  then  stopped  and  tried  to  speafc, 
but  no  words  would  come.  Patty  looked  at  him,  dropped 
Mary's  hand,  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair  as  she  looked 
timidly  round  at  the  wondering  spectators,  and,  putting  her 
hands  to  her  face,  ran  out  of  the  back  door  again. 

"  Lawk  a  massy  !  what  ever  can  ha'  cum  to  our  Patty  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Gibbons,  following  her  out. 

"I  think  we  had  better  go,"  said  Mr.  Porter,  giving  his  arm 
to  his  daughter,  and  leading  her  to  the  door.  "  Good-by, 
Katie;  shall  we  see  you  again  at  Barton  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  uncle,"  Katie  answered,  following  with  Mrs. 
Porter,  in  a  state  of  sad  bewilderment. 

Tom,  with  his  brain  swimming,  got  out  a  few  stammering 
fare  well  words,  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  received  with 
marked  coldness  as  they  stepped  into  their  carriage.  Mary's 
face  was  flushed  and  uneasy,  but  at  her  he  scarcely  dared  to 
steal  a  look,  and  to  her  was  quite  unable  to  speak  a  word. 

Then  the  carriage  drove  off,  and  he  turned,  and  found  Katie 
standing  by  his  side,  her  eyes  full  of  serious  wonder.  His  fell 
before  them. 

"My  dear  Tom,"  she  said,  «  what  is  all  this?"  I  thought 
you  had  never  seen  Martha?" 

"  So  I  thought — I  didn't  know — I  can't  talk  now — I'll  ex- 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  389 

plain  all  to  you — don't  think  very  badly  of  me,  Katie — God 
bless  you ! "  with  which  words  he  strode  away,  while  she 
looked  after  him  with  increasing  wonder  and  then  turned  and 
went  into  the  lodge. 

He  hastened  away  from  the  Rectory  and  down  the  village 
street,  taking  the  road  home  mechanically,  but  otherwise 
wholly  unconscious  of  roads  and  men.  David,  who  was  very 
anxious  to  speak  to  him  about  Harry,  stood  at  his  door  making 
signs  to  him  to  stop  in  vain,  and  then  gave  chase,  calling  out 
after  him,  till  he  saw  that  all  attempts  to  attract  his  notice 
were  useless,  and  so  ambled  back  to  his  shop-board  much 
troubled  in  mind. 

The  first  object  which  recalled  Tom  at  all  to  himself  was  the 
little  white  cottage  looking  out  of  Englebourn  Copse  towards 
the  village,  in  which  he  had  sat  by  poor  Betty's  death-bed. 
The  garden  was  already  getting  wild  and  tangled,  and  the 
house  seemed  to  be  uninhabited.  He  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  looked  at  it  with  bitter  searchings  of  heart.  Here  was 
the  place  where  he  had  taken  such  a  good  turn  as  he  had  fond- 
ly hoped,  in  connection  with  the  then  inmates  of  which  he  had 
made  the  strongest  good  resolutions  he  had  ever  made  in  his 
life  perhaps.  What  was  the  good  of  his  trying  to  befriend 
anybody;  his  friendship  turned  to  a  blight;  whatever  he  had 
as  yet  tried  to  do  for  Harry  had  only  injured  him,  and  now 
how  did  they  stand  ?  Could  they  ever  be  friends  again  after 
that  day's  discovery  ?  To  do  him  justice,  the  probable  ruin  of 
all  his  own  prospects,  the  sudden  coldness  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Porter's  looks,  and  Mary's  averted  face,  were  not  the  things  he 
thought  on  first,  and  did  not  trouble  him  most.  He  thought 
of  Harry,  and  shuddered  at  the  wrong  he  had  done  him  as  he 
looked  at  his  deserted  home.  The  door  opened  and  a  figure 
appeared.  It  was  Mr.  Wurley's  agent,  the  lawyer  who  had 
been  employed  by  Farmer  Tester  in  his  contest  with  Harry 
and  his  mates  about  the  pound.  The  man  of  law  saluted  him 
with  a  smirk  of  scarcely  concealed  triumph,  and  then  turned 
into  the  house  again  and  shut  the  door,  as  if  he  did  not  con- 
sider further  communication  necessary  or  safe.  Tom  turned 
with  a  muttered  imprecation  on  him  and  his  master,  and  hur- 
ried away  along  the  lane  which  led  to  the  heath.  The  Hawk's 
Lynch  lay  above  him,  and  he  climbed  the  side  mechanically 
and  sat  himself  again  on  the  old  spot 

He  sat  for  some  time  looking  over  the  landscape,  graven  on 
his  mind  as  it  was  by  his  former  visit,  and  bitterly,  oh,  how 
bitterly !  did  the  remembrance  of  that  visit,  and  of  the  exulta- 
tion and  triumph  which  then  filled  him,  and  earned  him  away 


390  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

over  the  heath  with  a  shout  towards  his  home,  come  back  on 
him.  He  could  look  out  from  his  watch-tower  no  longer,  and 
lay  down  with  his  face  between  his  hands  on  the  turf,  anc. 
groaned  as  he  lay. 

But  his  good  angel  seemed  to  haunt  the  place,  and  soon  the 
cold  fit  began  to  pass  away,  and  better  and  more  hopeful 
thoughts  to  return.  After  all,  what  had  he  done  since  his  last 
visit  to  that  place  to  be  ashamed  of  ?  Nothing.  His  attempts 
to  do  Harry  service,  unlucky  as  they  had  proved,  had  been 
honest.  Had  he  become  less  worthy  of  the  love  which  had  first 
consciously  mastered  him  there  some  four  weeks  ago  ?  No ; 
he  felt,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  had  already  raised  him,  and 
purified  him,  and  made  a  man  of  him.  But  this  last  discovery, 
how  could  he  ever  get  over  that?  Well,  after  all,  the  facts 
were  just  the  same  before,  only  now  they  had  come  out.  It 
was  right  that  they  should  have  come  out ;  better  for  him  and 
for  every  one  that  they  should  be  known  and  faced.  He  vras 
ready  to  face  them,  to  abide  any  consequences  that  they  might 
now  bi'ing  in  their  train.  His  heart  was  right  towards  Mary, 
towards  Patty,  towards  Harry,  that  he  felt  sure  of.  And  if 
so,  why  should  he  despair  of  either  his  love  or  his  friendship 
coming  to  a  bad  end  ? 

And  so  he  sat  up  again,  and  looked  out  bravely  towards 
Barton,  and  began  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done.  His  eyes 
rested  on  the  Rectory.  That  was  the  first  place  to  begin  with. 
He  must  set  himself  right  with  Katie  ;  let  her  know  the  whole 
story.  Through  her  he  could  reach  all  the  rest,  and  do  what- 
ever must  be  done  to  clear  the  ground  and  start  fresh  again. 

At  first  he  thought  of  returning  to  her  at  once,  and  rose  to 
go  down  to  Englebourn.  But  anything  like  retracing  his  steps 
was  utterly  distasteful  to  him  just  then.  Before  him  he  saw 
light,  dim  enough  as  yet,  but  still  a  dawning ;  towards  that  he 
would  press,  leaving  everything  behind  him  to  take  care  of 
itself.  So  he  turned  northwards,  and  struck  across  the  heath 
at  his  best  pace.  The  violent  exercise  almost  finished  his  cure, 
and  his  thoughts  became  clearer  and  more  hopeful  as  he 
neared  home.  He  arrived  there  as  the  household  were  going 
to  bed,  and  found  a  letter  waiting  for  him.  It  was  from 
Hardy,  saying  that  Blake  had  left  him,  and  he  was  now  think- 
ing of  returning  to  Oxford,  and  would  come  for  his  long-talked- 
of  visit  to  Berkshire,  if  Tom  was  still  at  home  and  in  the  mind 
t«  receive  him. 

Never  was  a  letter  more  opportune.  Here  was  the  tried 
friend  on  whom  he  could  rely  for  help  and  advice  and  sympa- 
thy. Who  knew  all  the  facts,  too,  from  beginning  to  end.  His 


SECOND  YEAR.  391 

father  and  mother  were  delighted  to  hear  that  they  should  now 
see  the  friend  of  whom  he  had  spoken  BO  much ;  so  he  went  up- 
stairs, and  wrote  an  answer,  which  set  Hardy  to  work  packing 
his  portmanteau  in  the  far  west,  and  brought  him  speedily  t* 
the  side  of  his  friend  under  the  lee  of  the  Berkshire  hills. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

SECOND   YEAK. 

FOR  some  days  after  his  return  home — in  fact,  until  his 
friend's  arrival,  he  was  thoroughly  beaten  down  and  wretched, 
notwithstanding  his  efforts  to  look  hopefully  forward,  and  keep 
up  his  spirits.  His  usual  occupations  were  utterly  distasteful 
to  him ;  and,  instead  of  occupying  himself,  be  sat  brooding 
over  his  late  misfortune,  and  hopelessly  puzzling  his  head  as  to 
what  "he  could  do  to  set  matters  right.  The  conviction  in  which 
he  always  landed  was  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  and 
that  he  was  a  desolate  and  blighted  being,  deserted  of  gods 
and  men.  Hardy's  presence  and  company  soon  shook  him  out 
of  this  maudlin  nightmare  state,  and  he  began  to  recover  as 
soon  as  he  had  his  old  sheet-anchor  friend  to  hold  on  to  and 
consult  with.  Their  consultations  were  held  chiefly  in  the 
intervals  of  woodcraft,  in  which  they  spent  most  of  the  hours 
between  breakfast  and  dinner.  Hardy  did  not  take  out  a 
certificate,  and  wouldn't  shoot  without  one ;  so,  as  the  best 
autumn  exercise,  they  selected  a  tough  old  pollard  elm,  infin- 
itely ugly,  with  knotted  and  twisted  roots,  curiously  difficult  to 
get  at  and  cut  through,  which  had  been  long  marked  as  a  blot 
by  Mr.  Brown,  and  condemned  to  be  felled  as  soon  as  there 
was  nothing  more  pressing  for  his  men  to  do.  But  there  was 
always  something  of  more  importance ;  so  that  the  cross-grained 
old  tree  might  have  remained  until  this  day,  had  not  Hardy 
and  Tom  pitched  on  him  as  a  foeman  worthy  of  their  axes. 
They  shovelled  and  picked  and  hewed  away  with  great  energy. 
The  woodman  who  visited  them  occasionally,  and  who,  on 
examining  their  first  efforts,  had  remarked  that  the  severed  roots 
looked  a  little  u  as  tho'  the  dogs  had  been  a  gnawin'  at  'em," 
began  to  hold  them  in  respect,  and  to  tender  his  advice  with 
some  deference.  By  the  time  the  tree  was  felled  and  shrouded, 
Tom  was  in  a  convalescent  state. 

Their  occupation  had  naturally  led  to  discussions  on  the 
advantages  of  emigration,  the  delights  of  clearing  one's  own 
estate,  building  one's  own  house,  and  gett/ng  away  from  conven- 
tional life  with  a  few  tried  friends.  Of  course,  the  pictures  which 
were  painted  included  foregrounds  with  beautiful  children 
playing  about  the  clearing,  and  graceful  women,  wives  of  the 


392  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

happy  squatters,  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  log-houses  and  sheds, 
clothed  and  occupied  after  the  manner  of  our  ideal  grandmothers; 
with  the  health  and  strength  of  Amazons,  the  refinement  of 
high-bred  ladies,  and  wondrous  skill  in  all  domestic  works, 
confections,  and  contrivances.  The  log-houses  would  also  con- 
tain fascinating  select  libraries,  continually  reinforced  from 
home,  sufficient  to  keep  all  dwellers  in  the  happy  clearing  in 
communion  with  all  the  highest  minds  of  their  own  and  former 
generations.  Wondrous  games  in  the  neighboring  forest,  dear 
old  home  customs  established  and  taking  root  in  the  wilderness, 
with  ultimate  dainty  flower-gardens,  conservatories,,  and  piano- 
fortes— a  millennium  on  a  small  scale,  with  universal  education, 
competence,  prosperity,  and  equal  rights  !  Such  castle-building, 
as  an  accompaniment  to  the  hard  exercise  of  woodcraft,  worked 
wonders  for  Tom  in  the  next  week,  and  may  be  safely  recom- 
mended to  parties  in  like  evil  case  with  him. 

But  more  practical  discussions  were  not  neglected,  and  it 
was  agreed  that  they  should  make  a  day  at  Englebourn  to- 
gether before  their  return  to  Oxford,  Hardy  undertaking  to 
invade  the  Rectory  with  the  view  of  reestablishing  his  friend's 
character  there 

Tom  wrote  a  letter  to  Katie  to  prepare  her  for  a  visit.  The 
day  after  the  ancient  elm  was  fairly  disposed  of  they  started 
early  for  Englebourn,  and  separated  at  the  entrance  to  the 
village — Hardy  proceeding  to  the  Rectory  to  fulfil  his  mission, 
which  he  felt  to  be  rather  an  embarrassing  one,  and  Tom  to 
look  after  the  constable,  or  whoever  else  could  give  him  in- 
formation about  Harry. 

He  arrived  at  the  Red  Lion,  their  appointed  trysting-place, 
before  Hardy,  and  spent  a  restless  half-hour  in  the  porch  and 
bar  waiting  for  his  return.  At  last  Hardy  came,  and  Tom 
hurried  him  into  the  inn's  best  room,  where  bread  and  cheese 
and  ale  awaited  them,  and,  as  soon  as  the  hostess  could  be  got 
out  of  the  room,  began  impatiently, — 

"  Well ;  you  have  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Yes;  I  have  come  straight  here  from  the  Rectory." 

"  And  is  it  all  right,  eh  ?    Had  she  got  my  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  had  had  your  letter." 

"  And  you  think  she  is  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Satisfied  ?    No,  you  can't  expect  her  to  be  satisfied." 

"I  mean,  is  she  satisfied  that  it  isn't  so  bad  after  all  as  it 
looked  the  other  day?  What  does  Katie  think  of  me?" 

"  I  think  she  is  still  very  fond  of  you,  but  that  she  has  been 
puzzled  and  outraged  by  this  discovery,  and  cannot  get  over  it 
all  at  once." 


SECOND  YEAR.  593 

«*  Why  didn't  you  tell  her  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to 
/nd?" 

44  1  tried  to  do  so  as  well  as  I  could." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can  see  you  haven't  done  it.  She  doesn't  really 
anderstand  how  it  is." 

"  Perhaps  not  ;  but  you  must  remember  it  is  an  awkward 
subject  to  be  talking  about  to  a  young  woman.  I  would  sooner 
stand  another  fellowship  examination  than  go  through  it 


"  Thank  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Tom,  laying  his  hnnd  on 
Hardy's  shoulder;  "I  feel  that  I'm  unreasonable  and  impa- 
tient; but  you  can  excuse  it  ;  you  know  that  I  don't  mean  it." 

"  Don't  say  another  word  ;  I  only  wish  I  could  have  done 
more  for  you." 

"  But  what  do  you  suppose  Katie  thinks  of  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  it  sums  itself  up  in  this  :  she  sees  that  you 
have  been  making  serious  love  to  Patty,  and  have  turned  the 
poor  girl's  head,  more  or  less,  and  that  now  you  are  in  love 
with  somebody  else.  Why,  put  it  how  we  will,  we  can't  get 
out  of  that.  There  are  the  facts,  pure  and  simple,  and  she 
wouldn't  be  half  a  woman  if  she  didn't  resent  it." 

"  But  it's  hard  lines,  too,  isn't  it,  old  fellow  ?  No,  I  won't 
say  that  ;  I  deserve  it  all,  and  much  worse.  But  you  think  I 
may  come  round  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  in  good  time.  I  hope  there's  no  danger  in  any 
other  quarter  ?  " 

"  Goodness  knows  !  There's  the  rub,  you  see.  She  will  go 
back  to  town  disgusted  with  me  ;  I  shan't  see  her  again,  and 
she  won't  hear  of  me  for  I  don't  know  how  long;  and  she  will 
be  meeting  heaps  of  men.  Has  Katie  been  over  to  Barton  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  there  last  week,  just  before  they  left." 

««  Well,  what  happened  ?  n 

"  She  wouldn't  say  much  ;  but  I  gathered  that  they  are  v  ery 
well." 

"  Oh,  yes,  bother  it,  of  course  they  are  very  well.  But  didu'fc 
she  talk  to  Katie  about  what  happened  last  week  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  did.     What  else  should  they  talk  abcut  ? 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  they  said  ?  " 

"No;  but  you  may  depend  on  it  that  Miss  Winter  will  be 
your  friend.  My  dear  fellow,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  time." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Tom,  with  a  groan.  "  Do  you 
think  I  should  call  and  see  Katie  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  think  better  not." 

"  Well,  then,  we  may  as  well  get  back,"  said  Tom,  who  was 
not  sorry  for  his  friend's  decision.  So  they  paid  their  bill,  and 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

started   for  home,  taking   Hawk's   Lynch  on   the   way,  that 
Hardy  might  see  the  view. 

"  And  what  did  you  find  out  about  young  Winburn  ? "  he 
said,  as  they  passed  down  the  street. 

"  Oh,  no  good,"  said  Tom ;  "  he  was  turned  out,  as  I 
thought,  and  has  gone  to  live  with  an  old  woman  up  on  the 
heath  here,  who  is  no  better  than  she  should  be ;  and  none  of 
the  farmers  will  employ  him." 

"  You  didn't  see  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  is  away  with  some  of  the  heath  people,  hawking 
besoms  and  chairs  about  the  country.  They  make  them  when 
there  is  no  harvest  work,  and  loaf  about  into  Oxfordshire  and 
Buckinghamshire,  and  other  counties,  selling  them." 

"  No  good  will  come  of  that  sort  of  life,  I'm  afraid." 

"No ;  but  what  is  he  to  do?" 

**  I  called  at  the  lodge  as  I  came  away,  and  saw  Patty  and 
her  mother.  It's  all  right  in  that  quarter.  The  old  woman 
doesn't  seem  to  think  anything  of  it ;  and  Patty  is  a  good  girl, 
and  will  make  Harry  Winburn,  or  anybody  else,  a  capital  wife. 
Here's  your  locket  and  the  letters  ;  so  now  that's  all  over." 

"  Did  she  seem  to  mind  giving  them  up  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much.  No,  you  are  lucky  there.  She  will  get 
over  it." 

"  But  you  told  her  that  I  am  her  friend  for  life,  and  that  she 
is  to  let  me  know  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  for  her  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  now  I  hope  this  is  the  last  job  of  the  kind  I  shall 
ever  have  to  do  for  you." 

"  But  what  bad  luck  it  has  been !  If  I  had  only  seen  her 
before,  or  known  who  she  was,  nothing  of  all  this  would  have 
happened." 

To  which  Hardy  made  no  reply ;  and  the  subject  was  not 
alluded  to  again  in  their  walk  home. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  they  returned  to  Oxford — Hardy  to 
begin  his  work  as  fellow  and  assistant-tutor  of  the  college,  and 
Tom  to  see  whether  he  could  not  make  a  better  hand  of  his 
second  year  than  he  had  of  his  first.  He  began  with  a  much 
better  chance  of  doing  so,  for  he  was  thoroughly  humbled. 
The  discovery  that  he  was  not  altogether  such  a  hero  as  he  had 
fancied  himself,  had  dawned  upon  him  very  distinctly  by  the 
end  of  his  first  year,  and  the  events  of  the  long  vacation  had 
confirmed  the  impression,  and  pretty  well  taken  all  the  conceit 
out  of  him  for  the  time.  The  impotency  of  his  own  will,  even 
when  he  was  bent  on  doing  the  right  thing,  his  want  of  in- 
sight and  foresight  in  whatever  matter  he  took  in  hand,  the 
unruliness  of  his  tempers  and  passions  just  at  the  moments 


SECOND  YEAR.  395 

when  it  behooved  him  to  have  them  most  thoroughly  in  hand 
and  under  control,  were  a  set  of  disagreeable  facts  which  had 
been  driven  well  home  to  him.  The  results,  being  even  such 
as  we  have  seen,  he  did  not  much  repine  at,  for  he  felt  he  had 
deserved  them;  and  there  was  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction, 
dreary  as  the  prospect  was,  in  facing  them,  and  taking  his 
punishment  like  a  man.  This  was  what  he  had  felt  at  the  first 
blush  on  the  Hawk's  Lynch ;  and,  as  he  thought  over  matters 
again  by  his  fire,  with  his  oak  sported,  on  the  first  evening  of 
Verm,  he  was  still  in  the  same  mind.  This  was  clearly  what 
he  had  to  do  now.  How  to  do  it  was  the  only  question. 

At  first  he  was  inclined  to  try  to  set  himself  right  with  the 
Porters  and  the  Englebourn  circle,  by  writing  further  explana- 
tions and  confessions  to  Katie.  But,  on  trying  his  hand  at  a 
letter,  he  found  that  he  could  not  trust  himself.  The  tempta- 
tion of  putting  everything  in  the  best  point  of  view  for  himself 
was  too  great ;  so  he  gave  up  the  attempt,  and  merely  wrote  a 
few  lines  to  David,  to  remind  him  that  he  was  always  ready 
and  anxious  to  do  all  he  could  for  his  friend,  Harry  Winburn, 
and  to  beg  that  he  might  have  news  of  anything  which  hap- 
pened to  him,  and  how  he  was  getting  on.  He  did  not  allude 
to  what  had  lately  happened,  for  he  did  not  know  whether  the 
facts  had  become  known,  and  was  in  no  hurry  to  open  the 
subject  himself. 

Having  finished  his  letter,  he  turned  again  to  his  meditations 
over  the  fire,  and,  considering  that  he  had  some  little  right  to 
reward  resolution,  took  off  the  safety  valve,  and  allowed  the 
thoughts  to  bubble  up  freely  which  were  always  underlying  all 
others  that  passed  through  his  brain,  and  making  constant  low, 
delicious,  but  just  now  somewhat  melancholy,  music  in  his 
head  and  heart.  He  gave  himself  up  to  thinking  of  Mary,  and 
their  walk  in  the  wood,  and  the  sprained  ankle,  and  all  the 
sayings  and  doings  of  that  eventful  autumn  day.  And  then  he 
opened  his  desk  and  examined  certain  treasures  therein  con- 
cealed, including  a  withered  rosebud,  a  sprig  of  heather,  a  cut 
boot-lace,  and  a  scrap  or  two  of  writing.  Having  gone  through 
some  extravagant  forms  of  worship,  not  necessary  to  be  speci- 
fied, he  put  them  away.  Would  it  ever  all  come  right  ? 

He  made  his  solitary  tea,  and  sat  down  again  to  consider  the 
point.  But  the  point  would  not  be  considered  alone.  He 
began  to  feel  more  strongly  what  he  had  had  several  hints  of 
already,  that  there  was  a  curiously  close  connection  between 
his  own  love  story  and  that  of  Harry  Winburn  and  Patty — 
that  he  couldn't  separate  them,  even  in  his  thoughts.  Old 
Simon's  tumble,  which  had  recalled  his  daughter  from  Oxford 


396  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

at  so  critical  a  moment  for  him  ;  Mary's  visit  to  Englebouna 
at  this  very  time ;  the  curious  yet  natural  series  of  littl* 
accidents  which  had  kept  him  in  ignorance  of  Patty's  identity 
until  the  final  catastrophe — then  again,  the  way  in  which 
Harry  Winburn  and  his  mother  had  come  across  him  on  the 
very  day  of  his  leaving  Barton ;  the  fellowship  of  a  common 
mourning  which  had  seemed  to  bind  them  together  so  closely, 
and  this  last  discovery  which  he  could  not  help  fearing  must 
turn  Harry  into  a  bitter  enemy,  when  he  heard  the  truth,  as  \\c 
must,  sooner  or  later, — as  all  these  things  passed  before  him, 
he  gave  in  to  a  sort  of  superstitious  feeling  that  his  own  fate 
hung  in  some  way  or  another  upon  that  of  Harry  Winbura 
If  he  helped  on  his  suit,  he  was  helping  on  his  own;  but 
whether  he  helped  on  his  own  or  not,  was,  after  all,  not  that 
which  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  He  was  much  changed 
in  this  respect  since  he  last  sat  in  those  rooms,  just  after  hii 
first  days  with  her.  Since  then  an  angel  had  met  him,  and  had 
«'  touched  the  chord  of  self,  which,  trembling,"  was  passing  "  in 
music  out  of  sight." 

The  thought  of  Harry  and  his  trials  enabled  him  to  indulge 
in  some  good  honest  indignation,  for  which  there  was  no  room 
in  his  own  case.  That  the  prospects  in  life  of  such  a  man 
should  be  in  the  power,  to  a  great  extent  of  such  people  as 
Squire  Wurley  and  Farmer  Tester ;  that,  because  he  happened 
to  be  poor,  he  should  be  turned  out  of  the  cottage  where  his 
family  had  lived  for  a  hundred  years,  at  a  week's  notice, 
through  the  caprice  of  a  drunken  gambler ;  that,  because  he 
had  stood  up  for  his  rights,  and  had  thereby  offended  the 
worst  farmer  in  the  parish,  he  should  be  a  marked  man,  and 
unable  to  get  work — these  things  appeared  so  monstrous  to 
him,  and  made  him  so  angry,  that  he  was  obliged  to  get  rip 
and  stamp  about  the  room.  And  from  the  particular  case  he 
very  soon  got  to  generalizations. 

Questions  which  had  before  now  puzzled  him  gained  a  new 
significance  every  minute,  and  became  real  to  him.  Why  a 
few  men  should  be  rich,  and  all  the  rest  poor  ;  above  all,  why 
he  should  be  one  of  the  few  ?  Why  the  mere  possession  of 
property  should  give  a  man  power  over  all  his  neighbors? 
Why  poor  men  who  were  ready  and  willing  to  work  should 
only  be  allowed  to  work,  as  a  sort  of  favor,  and  should  after  all 
get  the  merest  tithe  of  what  their  labor  produced,  and  be  tossed 
aside  as  soon  as  their  work  was  done,  or  no  longer  required  V 
These,  and  other  such  problems,  rose  up  before  him,  crude  and 
sharp,  asking  to  be  solved.  Feeling  himself  quite  unable  to 
give  any  but  one  answer  to  them,  that  he  was  getting  out  of 


SECOND  YEAR.  397 

his  depth,  and  that  the  whole  business  was  in  a  muddle,  he  had 
recourse  to  his  old  method  when  in  difficulties,  and,  putting  on 
his  cap,  started  off  to  Hardy's  rooms  to  talk  the  matter  over, 
»nd  see  whether  he  could  not  get  some  light  on  it  from  that 
quarter. 

He  returned  in  an  hour  or  so,  somewhat  less  troubled  in  his 
mind,  inasmuch  as  he  had  found  his  friend  in  pretty  much  the 
same  state  as  himself.  But  one  step  he  had  gained.  Under 
his  arm  he  carried  certain  books  from  Hardy's  scanty  library, 
the  perusal  of  which  he  hoped,  at  least,  might  enable  \iirn, 
sooner  or  later,  to  feel  that  he  had  got  on  to  some  sort  of  firm 
ground.  At  any  rate,  Hardy  had  advised  him  to  read  them  ; 
so,  without  more  ado,  he  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  and  began 
to  look  into  them. 

This  glimpse  of  the  manner  in  which  Tom  spent  the  first 
evening  of  his  second  year  at  Oxford,  will  enable  intelligent 
readers  to  understand  why,  though  he  took  to  reading  far  more 
kindly  and  earnestly  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  he  made  no 
great  advance  in  the  proper  studies  of  the  place.  Not  that  he 
wholly  neglected  th^se,  for  Hardy  kept  him  pretty  well  up  to 
the  collar,  and  he  passed  his  little-go  creditably,  and  was  fairly 
placed  at  the  college  examinations.  In  some  of  the  books  which 
he  had  to  get  up  for  lectures  ho  was  really  interested.  The 
politics  of  Athens,  the  struggle  between  the  Roman  plebs  and 
patricians,  Mons  Sacer,  and  the  Agrarian  Laws — these  began 
to  have  a  new  meaning  to  him,  but  chiefly  because  they  bore 
more  or  less  on  the  great  Harry  "VVinbnrn  problem ;  which 
problem,  indeed,  for  him  had  now  fairly  swelled  into  the  con* 
dition-of-England  problem,  and  was  becoming  every  day  more 
and  more  urgent  and  importunate,  shaking  many  old  beliefs, 
and  leading  him  whither  he  knew  not. 

This  very  matter  of  leading  was  a  sore  trial  to  him.  The 
further  he  got  on  his  new  road  the  more  he  felt  the  want  of 
guidance — the  guidance  of  some  man ;  for  that  of  books  he 
soon  found  to  be  bewildering.  His  college  tutor,  whom  he 
consulted,  only  deprecated  the  waste  of  time ;  but,  on  finding 
it  impossible  to  dissuade  him,  at  last  recommended  the  econo* 
mic  works  of  that  day  as  the  proper  well-springs  of  truth  on  such 
matters.  To  them  Tom  accordingly  went,  and  read  with  the 
docility  and  faith  of  youth,  bent  on  learning,  and  feeling  itself 
in  the  presence  of  men  who  had,  or  assumed,  the  right  of 
speaking  with  authority. 

And  they  spoke  to  him  with  authority,  and  he  read  on,  be- 
lieving much  and  hoping  more ;  but  somehow  they  did  not 
really  satisfy  him,  though  they  silenced  him  for  the  time.  It 


398  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

was  not  the  fault  of  the  books,  most  of  which  laid  down  clearly 
enough  that  what  they  professed  to  teach  was  the  science  of 
man's  material  interests,  and  the  laws  of  the  making  and  em- 
ployment of  capital.  But  this  escaped  him  in  his  eagerness, 
and  he  wandered  up  and  down  their  pages  in  search  of  quite 
another  science,  and  of  laws  with  which  they  did  not  meddle. 
Nevertheless,  here  and  there  they  seemed  to  touch  upon  what 
he  was  in  search  of.  He  was  much  fascinated,  for  instance,  by 
the  doctrine  of  "  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber," and  for  its  sake  swallowed  for  a  time,  though  not  with- 
out wry  faces  the  dogmas,  that  self-interest  is  the  true  pivot  of 
all  social  action,  that  population  has  a  perpetual  tendency  to 
outstrip  the  means  of  living,  and  that  to  establish  a  preventive 
check  on  population  is  the  duty  of  all  good  citizens.  And  so 
he  lived  on  for  some  time  in  a  dreary,  uncomfortable  state, 
fearing  for  the  future  of  his  country,  and  with  little  hope 
about  his  own.  But,  when  he  came  to  take  stock  of  his 
newly  acquired  knowledge,  to  weigh  it  and  measui*e  it,  and 
found  it  to  consist  of  a  sort  of  hazy  conviction  that  society 
would  be  all  right  and  ready  for  the  millennium,  when 
every  man  could  do  what  he  liked,  and  nobody  could  in- 
terfere with  him,  and  there  should  be  a  law  against  mar- 
riage, the  result  was  more  than  he  could  stand.  He 
roused  himself,  and  shook  himself,  and  began  to  think, 
"  Well,  these  my  present  teachers  are  very  clever  men,  and 
well-meaning  m  n,  too.  see  all  that;  but,  if  their  teach- 
ing is  only  to  land  me  here,  why  it  was  scarcely  worth 
while  going  through  so  much  to  get  so  little." 

Casting  about  still  for  guidance,  Grey  occurred  to  him. 
Grey  was  in  residence  as  a  bachelor,  attending  divinity  lect- 
ures, and  preparing  for  ordination.  He  was  still  working 
hard  at  the  night-school,  and  Tom  had  been  there  once  or  twice 
to  help  him  when  the  curate  was  away.  In  short,  he  was  in 
yery  good  books  with  Grey,  who  had  got  the  better  of  his  shy- 
ness with  him.  He  saw  that  Tom  was  changed  and  sobered, 
and  in  his  heart  hoped  some  day  to  wean  him  from  the  pur- 
suits of  the  body,  to  which  he  was  still  fearfully  addicted,  and 
to  bring  him  into  the  fold.  This  hope  was  not  altogether  un-. 
founded;  for,  notwithstanding  the  strong  bias  against  them 
which  Tom  had  brought  with  him  from  school,  he  was  now  at 
times  much  attracted  by  many  of  the  high  church  doctrines, 
and  the  men  who  professed  them.  Such  men  as  Grey  he  saw 
did  really  believe  something,  and  were  in  earnest  about  carry- 
ing their  beliefs  into  action.  The  party  might  and  did  com- 
prise many  others  of  the  weakest  sort,  who  believed  and  were 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  399 

in  earnest  about  nothing,  but  who  liked  to  be  peculiar.  Never- 
theless, while  he  saw  it  laying  hold  of  many  of  the  best  men  of 
his  time,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  drawn  towards 
it.  Some  help  might  lie  in  these  men  if  he  could  only  get 
at  it! 

So  he  propounded  his  doubts  and  studies,  and  their  results, 
to  Grey.  But  it  was  a  failure.  Grey  felt  no  difficulty,  or  very 
little,  in  the  whole  matter ;  but  Tom  found  that  it  was  because 
he  believed  the  world  to  belong  to  the  devil.  " Laissez faire" 
"  buying  cheap  and  selling  dear,"  Grey  held  might  be  good 
enough  laws  for  the  world — very  probably  were.  The  laws  of 
the  Church  were  "  self-sacrifice,"  and  "  bearing  one  another's 
burdens ; "  her  children  should  come  out  from  the  regions 
where  the  other's  laws  were  acknowledged. 

Tom  listened,  was  dazzled  at  first,  and  thought  he  was  get- 
ting on  the  right  track ;  but  very  soon  he  found  that  Grey's 
specific  was  not  of  the  least  use  to  him  !  It  was  no  good  to 
tell  him  of  the  rules  of  a  society  to  which  he  felt  that  he 
neither  belonged,  nor  wished  to  belong,  for  clearly  it  could  not 
be  the  Church  of  England.  He  was  an  outsider !  Grey  would 
probably  admit  it  to  be  so,  if  he  asked  him.  He  had  no  long- 
ing to  be  anything  else,  if  the  Church  meant  an  exclusive 
body,  which  took  no  care  of  any  but  its  own  people,  and  had 
nothing  to  say  to  the  great  world  in  which  he  and  most  people 
had  to  live,  and  buying  and  selling,  and  hiring  and  working, 
had  to  go  on.  The  close  corporation  might  have  very  good 
laws,  but  they  were  nothing  to  him.  What  he  wanted  to  know 
about  was  the  law  which  this  great  world — the  devil's  world,  as 
Grey  called  it — was  ruled  by,  or  rather  ought  to  be  ruled  by. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Bentham  and  the  others,  whose  books  he  had 
been  reading,  might  be  right !  At  any  rate,  it  was  clear  that 
they  had  in  their  thoughts  the  same  world  that  he  had — the 
world  which  included  himself  and  Harry  Winburn,  and  all 
laborers  and  squires  and  farmers.  So  he  turned  to  them  again, 
not  hopefully,  but  more  inclined  to  listen  to  them  than  he  had 
been  before  he  had  spoken  to  Grey. 

Hardy  was  so  fully  occupied  with  college  lectures  and  pri- 
vate pupils,  that  Tom  had  scruples  about  taking  up  much  of 
his  spare  time  in  the  evenings.  Nevertheless,  as  Grey  had 
broken  down,  and  there  was  nobody  else  on  whose  judgment 
he  could  rely  who  would  listen  to  him,  whenever  he  had  a 
chance  he  would  propound  some  of  his  puzzles  to  his  old  friend. 
In  some  respects  he  got  little  help,  for  Hardy  was  almost  a* 
much  at  sea  as  he  himself  on  such  subjects  as  "value,"  and 
•*  wages,"  and  the  "  laws  of  supply  and  demand."  But  the?*f> 


400  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

was  an  indomitable  belief  in  him  that  all  men's  intercourse 
with  one  another,  and  not  merely  that  of  Churchmen,  must  be 
founded  on  the  principle  of  "  doing  as  they  would  be  done  by." 
and  not  on  "  buying  cheap  and  selling  dear,"  and  that  these 
never  could  or  would  be  reconciled  with  one  another,  or  mean 
the  same  thing,  twist  them  how  you  would.  This  faith  of  his 
friend's  comforted  Tom  greatly,  and  he  was  never  tired  of 
bringing  it  out ;  but  at  times  he  had  his  doubts  whether  Grey 
might  not  be  right — whether,  after  all,  that  and  the  like 
maxims  and  principles  were  meant  to  be  the  laws  of  the  king- 
doms of  this  world.  He  wanted  some  corroborative  evidence 
on  the  subject  from  an  impartial  and  competent  witness,  and 
at  last  hit  upon  what  he  wanted.  For,  one  evening,  on  enter- 
ing Hai-dy's  rooms,  he  found  him  on  the  last  pages  of  a  book, 
which  he  shut  with  an  air  of  triumph  on  recognizing  his 
visitor.  Taking  it  up,  he  thrust  it  into  Tom's  hands,  and  slap- 
ping  him  on  the  shoulder,  said,  "  There,  my  boy,  that's  what 
we  want,  or  pretty  near  it  at  any  rate.  Now,  don't  say  a  word, 
but  go  back  to  your  rooms,  and  swallow  it  whole  and  digest  it, 
and  then  come  back  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 
"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  can't  talk ;  I  have  spent  the  better  part  of  two  days  over 
that  book,  and  have  no  end  of  papers  to  look  over.  Tiiere ;  get 
back  to  your  rooms,  and  do  what  I  tell  you,  or  sit  down  here 
and  hold  your  tongue." 

So  Tom  sat  down  and  held  his  tongue,  and  was  soon  deep  in 
Carlyle's  Past  and  Present.  How  he  did  revel  in  it — in  the 
humor,  the  power,  the  pathos,  but  above  all  in  the  root  and 
branch  denunciations  of  many  of  the  doctrines  in  which  he  had 
been  so  lately  voluntarily  and  wearily  chaining  himself !  The 
chains  went  snapping  off  one  after  another,  and  in  his  exulta- 
tion he  keeps  spouting  out  passage  after  passage  in  a  song  of 
triumph,  "  Enlightened  egoism  never  so  luminous  is  not  the 
rule  by  which  man's  life  can  be  led — laissez  faire,  supply  and 
demand,  cash  payment  for  the  sole  nexus,  and  so  forth,  were 
not,  are  not,  and  never  will  be,  a  practical  law  of  union  for  a 
society  of  men,"  etc.,  etc.,  until  Hardy  fairly  got  up  and  turned 
him  out,  and  he  retired  with  his  new-found  treasure  to  his  own 
rooms. 

He  had  scarcely  ever  in  his  life  been  so  moved  by  a  "book 
before.  He  laughed  over  it,  and  cried  over  it,  and  began  half 
a  dozen  letters  to  the  author  to  thank  him,  which  he  fortunate- 
ly tore  up.  He  almost  forgot  Mary  for  several  hours  during 
his  first  enthusiasm.  He  had  no  notion  how  he  had  been  mas- 
tered and  oppressed  before.  He  felt  as  the  crew  of  a  smaU 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD.  401 

fishing-smack,  who  are  being  towed  away  by  an  enemy's 
cruiser,  might  feel  on  seeing  a  frigate  with  the  Union  Jack 
flying,  bearing  down  and  opening  iire  on  their  captor  ;  or  as  a 
small  boy  at  school,  who  is  being  fagged  against  rules  by  the 
right  of  the  strongest,  feels  when  lie  sees  his  big  brother  com- 
ing round  the  corner.  The  help  which  he  had  found  was 
just  what  he  wanted.  There  was  no  narrowing  of  the  ground 
here,  no  appeal  to  men  as  members  of  any  exclusive  body 
whatever  to  separate  themselves  and  come  out  of  the  devil's 
world  ;  but  to  men  as  men,  to  every  man  as  a  man,  to  the 
weakest  and  meanest,  as  well  as  to  the  strongest  and  most 
noble,  telling  them  that  the  world  is  God's  world,  that  every 
one  of  them  h?s  a  work  in  it,  and  bidding  them  find  their 
work  and  set  about  it. 

The  strong  tinge  of  sudness  which  ran  through  the  whole 
book,  and  its  unsparing  denunciations  of  the  established  order 
of  things,  suited  his  own  unsettled  and  restless  frame  of  mind. 
So  he  gave  himself  up  to  his  new  bondage,  and  rejoiced  in  it 
as  though  he  had  found  at  last  what  he  was  seeking  for  ;  and, 
by  the  time  that  long  vacation  came  round  again,  to  which  we 
are  compelled  to  hurry  him,  he  was  filled  full  of  a  set  of  con- 
tradictory notions  and  beliefs  which  were  destined  to  astonish 
and  perplex  the  mind  of  that  worthy  J.  P.  for  the  county  of 
Berks,  Brown  the  elder,  whatever  other  effect  they  might  have 
on  society  at  large. 

Readers  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  our  hero  had  given 
up  his  old  pursuits ;  on  the  contrary  he  continued,  to  boat  and 
cricket  and  spar  with  as  much  vigor  as  ever.  His  perplexities 
also  made  him  a  little  more  silent  at  his  pastimes  than  he  used 
to  be.  But,  as  we  have  already  seen  him  thus  employed,  and 
know  the  ways  of  the  animal  in  such  matters,  it  is  needless  to 
repeat.  What  we  want  to  do  is  to  follow  him  into  new  fields 
of  thought  and  action,  and  mark,  if  it  may  be,  how  he  devel- 
ops, and  gets  himself  educated  in  one  way  and  another  :  and 
this  plunge  into  the  great  sea  of  social,  political,  and  econom- 
ical questions  is  the  noticeable  fact  (so  far  as  any  is  noticeable) 
of  his  second  year's  residence. 

During  the  year  he  had  only  very  meagre  accounts  of  mat- 
ters at  Englebourn.  Katie,  indeed,  had  come  round  sufficient- 
ly to  write  to  him,  but  she  scarcely  alluded  to  her  cousin.  He 
only  knew  that  Mary  had  come  out  in  London,  and  was  much 
admired,  and  that  the  Porters  had  not  taken  Barton  again, 
but  were  going  abroad  for  the  autumn  and  winter.  The  ac- 
counts of  Harry  were  bad  ;  he  was  still  living  at  Daddy  Col- 
lin's,  nobody  knew  how,  and  working  gang-work  occasionally 
with  the  outlaws  of  the  heath. 


402  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

The  only  fact  of  importance  in  the  neighborhood  had  been 
the  death  of  Squire  Wurley,  which  happened  suddenly  in  the 
spring.  A  distant  cousin  had  succeeded  him,  a  young  man  of 
Tom's  own  age. 

He  was  also  in  residence  at  Oxford,  and  Tom  knew  him. 
They  were  not  very  congenial ;  so  he  was  much  astonished 
when  young  Wurley,  on  his  return  to  college  after  his  rela- 
tive's funeral,  rather  sought  him  out,  and  seemed  to  wish  to 
know  more  of  him.  The  end  of  it  was  an  invitation  to  Tom  to 
come  to  the  Grange,  and  spend  a  week  or  so  at  the  beginning 
of  the  long  vacation.  There  was  to  be  a  party  of  Oxford  men, 
and  nobody  else  there ;  and  they  meant  to  enjoy  themselves 
thoroughly,  Wurley  said. 

Tom  felt  much  embarrassed  how  to  act,  and,  after  some  hes- 
itation, told  his  inviter  of  his  last  visit  to  the  mansion  in  ques- 
tion, thinking  that  a  knowledge  of  the  circumstances  might 
change  his  mind.  But  he  found  that  young  Wurley  knew  the 
facts  already;  and  in  fact,  he  couldn't  help  suspecting  that 
his  quarrel  with  the  late  owner  had  something  to  say  to  his 
present  invitation.  However,  it  did  not  lie  in  his  mouth  to  be 
curious  on  the  subject ;  and  so  he  accepted  the  invitation  glad- 
ly, much  delighted  at  the  notion  ot  beginning  his  vacation  so 
near  Englebourne,  and  having  the  run  of  the  Grange  fishing, 
which  was  justly  celebrated. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THF   RIVER    SIDE. 

So,  from  Henley,  Tom  went  home  just  to  see  his  father  and 
mother,  and  pick  up  his  fishing  gear,  and  then  started  for  the 
Grange.  On  his  road  thither,  he  more  than  once  almost  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  round  by  Englebourn,  get  his  first  interview 
with  Katie  over,  and  find  out  how  the  world  was  really  going 
with  Harry  and  his  sweetheart,  of  whom  he  had  had  sucu 
meagre  intelligence  of  late.  But,  for  some  reason  or  another^ 
when  it  came  to  taking  the  turn  to  Englebourn,  he  passed  it 
by,  and,  contenting  himself  for  the  time  with  a  distant  view 
of  the  village  and  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  drove  straight  to  the 
Grange. 

He  had  not  expected  to  feel  very  comfortable  at  first  in  the 
house  which  he  had  Left  the  previous  autumn  in  so  strange  a 
manner,  and  he  was  not  disappointed.  The  rooms  reminded 
him  unpleasantly  of  his  passage  of  arms  with  the  late  master, 
and  the  grave  and  portly  butler  was  somewhat  embarrassed  in 
bis  reception  of  him ;  while  the  footman,  who  carried  off  his 


THE  RIVER  SIDE.  403 

portmanteau,  did  it  with  a  grin  which  put  him  out.  The  set 
of  men  whom  he  found  there  were  not  of  his  sort.  They  were 
young  Londoners,  and  he  a  thorough  countryman.  But  the 
sight  of  the  stream,  by  which  he  took  a  hasty  stroll  before  din- 
ner, made  up  for  everything,  and  filled  him  with  pleasurable 
anticipations.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  sweeter  bit  of 
water. 

The  dinner  to  which  the  party  of  young  gentlemen  sat  down 
was  most  undeniable.  The  host  talked  a  little  too  much,  per- 
haps, under  all  the  circumstances,  of  my  wine,  my  plate,  my 
mutton,  etc.,  provoking  the  thought  of  how  long  they  had  been 
his.  But  he  was  bent  on  hospitality  after  his  fashion,  and  his 
guests  were  not  disposed  to  criticise  ranch. 

The  old  butler  did  not  condescend  to  wait,  but  brought  in  a 
magnum  of  claret  after  dinner,  carefully  nursing  it  as  if  it  were 
a  baby,  and  placing  it  patronizingly  before  his  young  master. 
Before  they  adjourned  to  the  billiard-room,  which  they  did  di- 
rect, they  had  disposed  of  several  of  the  same ;  but  the  follow- 
ers were  brought  in  by  a  footman,  the  butler  being  employed 
in  discxissing  a  bottle  of  an  older  vintage  with  the  steward  in 
the  still-room.  Then  came  pool,  pool,  pool,  soda-water  and  bran- 
dy, and  cigars,  into  the  short  hours ;  but  Tom  stole  away  early, 
having  an  eye  to  his  morning's  fishing,  and  not  feeling  much  at 
home  with  his  companions. 

He  was  out  soon  after  sunrise  the  next  morning.  He  never 
wanted  to  be  called  when  there  was  a  trout-stream  within  reach; 
and  his  fishing  instinct  told  him  that,  in  these  sultry  dog-days, 
there  would  be  little  chance  of  sport  when  the  sun  was  well  up. 
So  he  let  himself  gently  out  of  the  hall-door — paused  a  moment 
on  the  steps  to  fill  his  chest  with  the  fresh  morning  air,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  weather-cock  over  the  stables — and  then  set  to 
work  to  put  his  tackle  together  on  the  lawn,  humming  a  tune 
to  himself  as  he  selected  an  insinuating  red  hackle  and  alder 
fly  from  his  well-worn  book,  and  tied  them  on  to  his  cast.  Then 
he  slung  his  creel  over  his  shoulder,  picked  up  his  rod,  and 
started  for  the  water. 

As  he  passed  the  gates  of  the  stable-yard,  the  keeper  came 
out — a  sturdy,  bullet-headed  fellow  in  a  velveteen  coat,  and  cord 
breeches  and  gaiters — and  touched  his  hat.  Tom  returned  the 
salute,  and  wished  him  good-morning. 

"  Mornin',  sir  ;  you  be  about  early." 

"  Yes ;  I  reckon  it's  the  best  time  for  sport  at  the  end  of 
June." 

"  'Tis  so,  sir.     Shall  I  fetch  a  net  and  come  along  ?  " 

"  l*o,  thank  you,  I'll  manage  the  ladle  myself.  But  which  da 
yon  call  the  best  water  ?  " 


404  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

u  They  be  both  middling  good.  There  ain't  much  odds  a- 
twixt  'em.  But  I  sees  most  fish  moviu'  o'  mornius  in  the  deep 
water  down  below." 

"  I  don't  know  ;  the  night  was  too  hot,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
examined  the  water  the  day  before,  and  made  up  his  mind 
where  he  was  going.  "  I'm  for  deep  water  on  cold  days  ;  I  shall 
begin  with  the  stickles  up  above.  There's  good  head  of  water 
on,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Plenty  down  the  last  week,  sir." 

"  Come  along,  then  ;  we'll  walk  together,  if  you're  going  that 
way."  So  Tom  stepped  off,  brushing  through  the  steaming 
Jong  grass,  gemmed  with  wild  flowers,  followed  by  the  keeper; 
and,  as  the  grasshoppers  bounded  chirrupping  out  of  his  way, 
and  the  insect  life  hummed  and  murmured,  and  the  lark  rose 
and  sang  above  his  head,  he  felt  happier  than  he  had  done  for 
many  a  long  month.  So  his  heart  opened  towards  his  compan- 
ion who  kept  a  little  behind  him. 

"  What  size  do  you  take  'em  out,  keeper  ?  " 

"  Anything  over  nine  inches,  sir.  But  there's  a  smartish  few 
fish  of  three  pounds,  for  them  as  can  catch  'em." 

"Well,  that's  good;  but  they  ain't  easy  caught,  eh  ?" 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  sir;  but  there's  g  nts  comes  as  stands 
close  by  the  water,  and  flogs  down  stream  with  the  sun  in  their 
backs,  and  uses  all  manner  o'  vlies,  wi'  long  names ;  and  then 
they  gwoes  away,  and  says,  'tain't  no  use  flying  here,  'cos 
there's  so  much  cadis  bait  and  that  like." 

"  Ah,  very  likely,"  said  Tom,  with  a  chuckle. 

"The  chaps  as  catches  the  big  fishes,  sir,"  went  on  the  keep- 
er, getting  confidential,  "is  thay  cussed  night-line  poachers. 
There's  one  o'  thay  as  has  come  here  this  last  spring-tide — the 
artfullest  chap  as  ever  I  come  across,  and  down  to  every  move 
on  the  board.  lie  don't  use  no  shove  nets  nor  such  like  tackle, 
not  he  ;  I  s'pose  he  don't  call  that  sport.  Besides,  I  got  master 
V>  stake  the  whole  water,  and  set  old  knives  and  razors  about 
in  the  holes,  so  that  don't  answer;  and  this  joker  allus  goes 
alone — which,  in  course,  he  couldn't  do  with  nets.  Now,  I 
knows  within  five  or  six  yards  where  that  chap  sets  his  lines, 
and  I  finds  'em,  now  and  again,  set  the  artfullest  you  ever  see. 
But  'twould  take  a  man's  life  to  look  arter  him,  and  I  knows 
he  gets  maybe  a  dozen  big  fish  a  week,  do  all  as  I  knows." 

"How  is  it  you  can't  catch  him,  keeper?"  said  Tom,  much 
amused. 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  he  don't  come  at  any  hours.  Drat  'un ! " 
said  the  keeper,  getting  hot ;  "  blessed  if  I  don't  think  he 
sometimes  comes  down  among  the  haymakers  and  folk  at  noon, 


THE  RIVER  SIDE.  405 

and  up  lines  and  off,  while  thay  chaps  does  nothing  but  snigger 
at  'uu — all  I  knows  is,  as  I've  watched  till  midnight,  and  then 
on  again  at  dawn  for'n  and  no  good  come  on  it  but  once." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  one  niornin',  sir,  about  last  Lady-day,  I  comes  quite 
quiet  up  stream  about  dawn.  When  I  gets  to  Farmer  Giles' 
piece  (that  little  rough  bit,  sir,  as  you  sees  t'other  side  the 
stream,  two  fields  from  our  outside  bounds),  I  sees  'un  a  stoop- 
ing down  and  hauling  in's  line.  'Now's  your  time,  Billy,'  says 
I,  and  up  the  hedge  I  cuts  hot-foot,  to  get  betwixt  he  and  our 
bounds.  Wether  he  seen  me  or  not,  I  can't  mind  ;  leastways, 
when  I  up's  head  t'other  side  the  hedge,  vorrights  where  I 
seen  him  last,  there  was  he  a-trotting  up  stream  quite  cool,  a- 
pocketing  a  two-pounder.  Then  he  seen  me,  and  away  we  goes 
side  by  side  for  the  bounds — he  this  side  the  hedge  and  I 
t'other;  he  takin'  the  fences  like  our  old  greyhound-bitch, 
Clara.  We  takes  the  last  fence  on  to  that  fuzzy  field  as  you 
sees  there,  sir  (parson's  glebe,  and  out  of  our  liberty),  neck  and 
neck,  and  I  turns  short  to  the  left,  'cos  there  warn't  no  fence 
now  betwixt  he  and  I.  Well,  I  thought  he'd  a  dodged  on 
about  the  fuz.  Not  he  ;  he  slouches  his  hat  over's  eyes,  and 
stands  quite  cool  by  fust  fuz  bush — I  minded  then  as  we  was 
out  o'  our  beat.  Hows'ever,  my  blood  was  up ;  so  I  at's  him 
then  and  there,  no  words  lost,  and  fetches  a  crack  at's  head 
wi'  my  stick.  He  fends  wi'  his'n ;  and  then,  as  I  rushes  in  to 
collar  n,  dashed  if  'e  didn't  meet  I  full,  and  catch  I  by  the 
thigh  and  collar,  and  send  I  slap  over's  head  into  a  faz  bush. 
Then  he  chuckles  fit  to  bust  hisself,  and  cuts  his  stick,  while  I 
creeps  out  full  o'  prickles,  and  wi'  my  breeches  tore  shameful. 
Dang  'un !  "  cried  the  keeper,  while  Tom  roared,  "  he's  a  lissum 
wosbird,  that  I  'ool  say,  but  I'll  be  upsides  wi'  he  next  time  I 
sees  'un.  Whorson  fool  as  I  was  not  to  stop  and  look  at  'n  and 
speak  to  'un !  Then  I  should  ha'  know'd  'n  again  ;  and  now  he 
rned  be  our  parish  clerk  for  all  as  I  knows." 

"And  you've  never  met  him  since?" 

"  Never  sot  eye  on  'un,  sir,  arly  or  late — wishes  I  had." 

"  Well,  keeper,  here's  half  a  crown  to  go  towards  mending 
the  hole  in  your  breeches,  and  better  luck  at  the  return  match. 
I  shall  begin  fishing  here." 

"  Thank'ee,  sir ;  you  keep  your  cast  pretty  nigh  that  there 
off  bank,  and  you  med  have  a  rare  good  'un  ther*.  I  seen  a 
fish  suck  there  just  now  as  warn't  spawned  this  year  nor  last 
nether." 

And  away  went  the  keeper. 

**  Stanch  fellow,  the  keeper,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  he  reeled 


406  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

out  yard  after  yard  of  his  tapered  line,  and  with  a  gentle  sweep 
dropped  his  collar  of  flics  lightly  on  the  water,  each  cast  cover- 
ing another  five  feet  of  the  dimpling  surface.  "  Good  fellow, 
the  keeper — don't  mind  telling  a  story  against  himself — can 
stand  being  laughed  at — more  than  his  master  can.  Ah,  there's 
the  fish  he  saw  sucking,  I'll  be  bound.  Now,  you  beauties, 
over  his  nose,  and  fall  light — don't  disgrace  your  bringing  up !  " 
and  away  went  the  flies  quivering  through  the  air  and  lighting 
close  to  the  opposite  bank,  under  a  bunch  of  rushes.  A  slight 
round  eddy  followed  below  the  rushes  as  the  cast  came  gentl}' 
back  across  the  current. 

"  Ah,  you  see  them,  do  you,  old  boy  ?  "  thought  Tom,  "  Say 
your  prayers,  then,  and  get  shrived  :  "  and  away  went  the  flies 
again,  this  time  a  little  below.  No  movement.  The  third 
throw,  a  great  lunge  and  splash,  and  the  next  moment  the  lithe 
rod  bent  double,  and  the  gut  collar  spun  along,  cutting  through 
the  water  like  mad.  Up  goes  the  great  fish  twice  into  the  air 
Tom  giving  him  the  point,  then  up  stream  again,  Tom  giving 
him  the  butt  and  beginning  to  reel  up  gently.  Down  goes  the 
great  fish  into  the  swaying  weeds,  working  with  his  tail  like  a 
twelve-horse  screw.  "  If  I  can  only  get  my  nose  to  ground," 
thinks  he.  So  thinks  Tom,  and  trusts  to  his  tackle,  keeping  a 
steady  strain  on  trouty,  and  creeping  gently  down  stream.  "  No 
go,"  says  the  fish,  as  he  feels  his  nose  steadily  hauled  round,  and 
turns  with  a  swirl  down  stream.  Away  goes  Tom,  reeling  in, 
and  away  goes  the  fish  in  hopes  of  a  slack — away,  for  twenty 
or  thirty  yards — the  fish  coming  to  the  top  lazily,  now  and  again 
and  holding  on  to  get  his  second  wind.  Now  a  cart  track 
crossed  the  stream,  no  weeds,  and  shallow  water  at  the  side. 
"  Here  we  must  have  it  out,"  thinks  Tom,  and  turns  fish's  nose 
up  stream  again.  The  big  fish  gets  sulky,  twice  drifts  towards 
the  shallow,  and  twice  plunges  away  at  the  sight  of  his  enemy 
into  the  deep  water.  The  third  time  he  comes  swaying  in,  hia 
yellow  side  gleaming  and  his  mouth  open  ;  and  the  next  mo- 
ment Tom  scoops  him  out  on  the  grass,  with  a  "  whoop  "  that 
might  have  been  heard  at  the  house. 

"  Two-pounder,  if  he's  an  ounce,"  says  Tom,  as  he  gives  him 
the  coup  de  grace,  and  lays  him  out  lovingly  on  the  fresh  green 
sward. 

Who  amongst  you,  dear  readers,  can  appreciate  the  intense 
delight  of  grassing  your  first  big  fish  after  a  nine  mouths'  fast. 
All  first  sensations  have  their  special  pleasure,  but  none  can  be 
named,  in  a  small  way,  to  beat  this  of  the  first  fish  of  the  season. 
The  first  clean  leg-hit  for  four  in  your  first  match  at  Lords — the 
grating  of  the  bows  of  your  racing  boat  against  the  stera  of 


THE  RIVER  SIDE.  407 

the  boat  ahead  in  your  first  race — the  first  half-mile  of  a  burst 
from  the  cover  side  in  November  when  the  hounds  in  the  field 
ahead  may  be  covered  with  a  tablecloth,  and  no  one  but  the 
huntsman  and  a  top  sawyer  or  two  lies  between  you  and  then 
— the  first  brief  after  your  call  to  the  bar,  if  it  conies  within 
the  year — the  sensations  produced  by  these  are  the  same  in  kind ; 
but  cricket,  boating,  getting  briefs,  even  hunting,  lose  their 
edge  as  time  goes  on.  As  to  lady  readers,  it  is  impossible, 
probably,  to  give  them  an  idea  of  the  sensation  in  question. 
Pershaps  some  may  have  experienced  something  of  the  kind 
at  their  rirst  balls,  when  they  heard  whispers,  and  saw  all  eyes 
turning  their  way,  and  knew  that  their  dresses  and  gloves  fitted 
perfectly.  But  this  joy  can  be  felt  but  once  in  a  life  and  the 
first  fish  comes  back  as  fresh  as  ever,  or  ought  to  come,  if  all 
men  had  their  rights,  once  in  a  season.  So,  good  luck  to  the 
gentle  craft,  and  its  professors,  and  may  the  Fates  send  us 
much  into  their  company  !  The  trout-fisher,  like  the  landscape 
painter,  haunts  the  loveliest  places  of  the  earth,  and  haunts 
them  alone.  Solitude,  nature,  and  his  own  thoughts — he  must 
be  on  the  best  terms  with  all  of  these  ;  and  he  who  can  take 
kindly  the  largest  allowance  of  these,  is  likely  to  be  the  kind- 
liest and  truest  with  his  fellow-men. 

Tom  had  splendid  sport  that  summer  morning.  As  the  great 
sun  rose  higher,  the  light  morning  breeze  which  had  curled  the 
water,  died  away  ;  the  light  mist  drew  up  into  light  cloud,  and 
the  light  cloud  vanished  into  cloudland,  for  anything  I  know ; 
and  still  the  fish  rose,  strange  to  say,  though  Tom  felt  it  was 
an  affair  of  minutes,  and  acted  accordingly.  At  eight  o'clock 
he  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house,  at  a  point  in 
the  stream  of  rare  charms  both  for  the  angler  and  the  lover  of 
gentle  river  beauty.  The  main  stream  was  crossed  by  a  lock, 
formed  of  a  solid  brick  bridge  with  no  parapets,  under  which 
the  water  rushed  through  four  small  arches,  each  of  which  could 
be  closed  in  an  instant  by  letting  down  a  heavy  wooden  lock 
gater  fitted  in  grooves  on  the  upper  side  of  the  bridge.  Such 
locks  are  frequent  in  the  west-country  streams,  even  at  long 
distances  from  mills  and  millers,  for  whose  behoof  they  were 
made  in  old  days,  that  the  supply  of  water  to  the  mill  might 
be  easily  regulated.  All  pious  anglers  should  bless  the  memo- 
ries of  the  old  builders  of  them,  for  they  are  the  very  paradises 
of  the  great  trout,  who  frequent  the  old  brickwork  and  timber 
foundations.  The  water,  in  its  rush  through  the  arches,  had 
of  course  worked  for  itself  a  deep  hole,  and  then,  some  twenty 
yards  below,  spread  itself  out  in  wanton  joyous  ripples  and  ed- 
dies over  a  broad  surface  some  fifty  yards  across,  and  dashed 


408  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

away  towards  a  little  island  some  two  hundred  yards  below,  «>.- 
rolled  itself  slowly  back  towards  the  bridge  again,  up  the  back 
water  by  the  side  of  the  bank,  as  if  longing  for  another  merry 
rush  through  one  of  those  narrow  arches.  The  island  below 
was  crowned  with  splendid  alders,  willows  forty  feet  high, 
which  wept  into  the  water,  and  two  or  three  poplars ;  a  rich 
mile  of  water  meadow,  with  an  occasional  willow  or  alder  lay 
gleaming  beyond ;  and  the  view  was  bounded  by  a  glorious 
wood,  which  crowned  the  gentle  slope,  at  the  foot  of  which  the 
river  ran.  Another  considerable  body  of  water,  which  had 
been  carried  off  above  from  the  main  stream  to  flush  the  water 
meadows,  rejoined  its  parent  at  this  point ;  it  came  slowly  down 
a  broad  artificial  ditch,  running  parallel  with  the  main  stream ; 
and  the  narrow  strip  of  land  which  divided  the  two  streams 
ended  abruptly  just  below  the  lock,  forming  a  splendid  point 
for  bather  or  angler.  Tom  had  fixed  on  this  pool  as  his  bonne 
bouche,  as  a  child  keeps  its  plums  till  the  last,  and  stole  over 
the  bridge,  stooping  low,  to  gain  the  point  above  indicated. 
Having  gained  it,  he  glanced  round  to  be  aware  of  the  dwarf 
ash-trees  and  willows  which  were  scattered  along  the  strip  and 
might  catch  heedless  collars  and  spoil  sport,  when,  lying  lazily 
almost  on  the  surface  where  the  backwater  met  the  stream 
from  the  meadows,  he  beheld  the  great-grandfather  of  all 
trout,  a  fellow  two  feet  long  and  a  foot  in  girth  at  the  shoul- 
ders, just  moving  fin  enough  to  keep  him  from  turning 
over  on  to  his  back.  He  threw  himself  flat  on  the  ground  and 
crept  away  to  the  other  side  of  the  strip ;  the  king-fish  had 
not  seen  him ;  and  the  next  moment  my  uncle  saw  him  suck 
in  a  bee  laden  with  his  morning's  load  of  honey,  who  touched 
the  water  unwarily  close  to  "his  nose.  With  a  trembling 
hand  Tom  took  off  his  tail  fly,  and,  on  his  knees,  substituted  a 
governor;  then,  shortening  his  line  after  wetting  his  mimic  bee 
in  the  pool  behind  him,  tossed  him  gently  into  the  monster's 
very  jaws.  For  a  moment  the  fish  seemed  scared,  but  the  next, 
conscious  in  his  strength,  lifted  his  nose  slowly  to  the  surface 
and  sucked  in  the  bait.  My  uncle  struck  gently,  and  then 
sprang  to  his  feet.  But  the  Heavens  had  other  work  for  the 
king-fish,  who  dived  swiftly  under  the  bank ;  a  slight  jar  fol- 
lowed, and  Tom's  rod  was  straight  over  his  head,  the  line  and 
scarce  a  yard  of  his  trusty  gut  collar  dangling  about  his  face. 
He  seized  this  remnant  with  horror  and  unsatisfied  longing, 
and  examined  it  with  care.  Could  he  have  over-looked  any 
fraying  which  the  gut  might  have  got  in  the  morning's  work  ? 
No  ;  he  had  gone  over  every  inch  of  it  not  five  minutes  before, 
as  he  neared  the  pool.  Besides,  it  was  cut  clean  through,  not 


THE  RIVER  SIDE.  409 

a  trace  of  bruise  or  fray  about  it.  How  could  it  have  happen- 
ed? He  went  to  the  spot  and  looked  into  the  water;  it  was 
slightly  discolored,  and  he  could  not  see  the  bottom.  He  threw 
his  fishing  coat  off,  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his  flannel  shirt,  and, 
lying  on  his  side,  felt  about  the  bank  and  tried  to  reach  the 
bottom,  but  couldn't.  So,  hearing  the  half-hour  bell  ring,  he 
deferred  further  inquiry,  and  stripped  in  silent  disgust  for  a 
plunge  in  the  pool.  Three  times  he  hurled  himself  into  the 
delicious  rush  of  the  cold  chalk  stream,  with  that  utter  aban- 
don in  which  man,  whose  bones  are  brittle,  can  only  indulga 
when  there  are  six  or  seven  feet  of  water  between  him  and 
mother  earth ;  and,  letting  the  stream  bear  him  away  at  its 
own  sweet  will  to  the  shallows  below,  struck  up  again  through 
the  rush  and  the  roar  to  his  plunging  place.  Then  slowly  and 
luxuriously  dressing,  he  lit  his  short  pipe, — companion  of  med- 
itation,— and  began  to  ruminate  on  the  escape  of  his  king-fish. 
What  could  have  cut  his  collar  ?  The  more  he  thought,  the 
less  he  could  make  it  out.  When  suddenly  he  was  aware  of 
the  keeper  on  his  way  back  to  the  house  for  orders  and  break- 
fast. 

"What  sport,  sir?" 

"  Pretty  fair,"  said  Tom,  carelessly ;  lugging  five  plump 
speckled  fellows,  weighing  some  seven  and  a  half  pounds,  out 
of  his  creel,  and  laying  them  out  for  the  keeper's  inspection. 

"  Well,  they  be  in  prime  order,  sir,  surely,"  says  the  keeper, 
handling  them;  "they  allus  gets  mortal  thick  across  the 
shoulders  while  the  May  fly  be  on.  Lose  any,  sir?" 

"  I  put  in  some  little  ones  up  above,  and  lost  one  screamer 
just  up  the  back  ditch  there.  He  must  have  been  a  four 
pounder,  and  went  off,  and  be  hanged  to  him,  with  two  yards 
of  my  collar  and  a  couple  of  first-rate  flies.  How  on  earth  he 
got  off  I  can't  tell ! "  and  he  went  on  to  unfold  the  particulars 
of  the  short  struggle. 

The  keeper  could  hardly  keep  down  a  grin.  "  Ah,  sir,"  said 
he,  "  I  thinks  I  knows  what  spwiled  your  sport.  You  owes  it 
all  to  that  chap  as  I  was  a-telling  you  of,  or  my  name's  not 
Willum  Goddard ;  "  and  then,  fishing  the  lock-pole  with  a  hook 
at  the  end  of  it  out  of  the  rushes,  he  began  groping  under  the 
bank,  and  presently  hauled  up  a  sort  of  infernal  machine,  con- 
sisting of  a  heavy  lump  of  wood,  a  yard  or  so  long,  in  which 
were  carefully  inserted  the  blades  of  four  or  five  old  knives  and 
razors,  vrhile  a  crop  of  rusty,  jagged  nails  filled  up  the  spare 
space. 

Tom  looked  at  it  in  wonder.  "  What  devil's  work  have  you 
got  hold  of  there  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 


410  TOM  BSOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Bless  you,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  "  'tis  only  our  shove-net 
traps  as  I  wur  a-telling  you  of.  I  keeps  hard  upon  a  dozen  on 
'em,  and  shifts  'em  about  in  the  likeliest,  holes ;  and  I  takes 
care  to  let  the  men  as  is  about  the  wate;  meadows  see  me  a- 
sharpening  on  'em  up  a  bit,  wi'  a  file,  now  and  again.  And, 
since  master  gev  me  orders  to  put  'em  in,  I  don't  think  they 
tries  that  game  on  not  once  a  month." 

"  Well,  but  where  do  you  and  your  master  expect  to  go  to 
if  you  set  such  things  as  those  about  ?  "  said  Tom,  looking 
serious.  "  Why,  you'll  be  cutting  some  fellow's  hand  or  foot 
half  off  one  of  these  days.  Suppose  I'd  waded  up  the  bank  to 
see  what  had  become  of  my  cast  ?" 

"  Lor,  sir,  I  never  thought  o'  that,"  said  the  keeper,  looking 
sheepish,  and  lifting  the  back  of  his  short  hat  off  his  head  to 
make  room  for  a  scratch  ;  "  but,"  added  he,  turning  the  sub- 
ject, "  if  you  wants  to  keep  thay  artful  wosbirds  off  the  water, 
you  must  frighten  'em  wi'  summat  out  o'  the  way.  Drattle 
'em,  I  knows  they  puts  me  to  my  wits'  end  ;  but  you'd  never 
'a'  had  five  such  fish  as  them  afore  breakfast,  sir,  if  we  didn't 
stake  the  waters  unmussiful." 

"  Well,  and  I  don't  want  'em,  if  I  can't  get  'em  without, 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  keeper,  this  razor  business  is  going  a 
bit  too  far ;  men  ain't  to  be  maimed  for  liking  a  bit  of  sport. 
You  set  spring-guns  in  the  woods,  and  you  know  what  that 
came  to.  Why  don't  you,  or  one  of  your  watches,  stop  out 
here  at  night,  and  catch  the  fellows,  like  men  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  master  don't  allow  me  but  one  watcher, 
and  he's  mortal  feared  o'  the  water  he  be,  specially  o'  nights. 
He'd  sooner  by  half  stop  up  in  the  woods.  Daddy  Collins 
(that's  an  old  woman  as  lives  on  the  heath,  sir,  and  a  bad  sort 
she  be,  too),  well,  she  told  he  once,  when  he  wouldn't  gee  her 
some  bacchy  as  he'd  got,  and  she'd  a  mind  to,  as  he'd  fall  twice 
into  the  water  for  once  as  he'd  a  get  out ;  and  th'  poor  chap 
ever  since  can't  think  but  what  he'll  be  drownded.  And 
there's  queer  sights  and  sounds  by  the  river  o'  nights,  too,  I 
ool  say,  sir,  let  alone  the  white  mist,  as  makes  everything  look 
unket,  and  gives  a  chap  the  rheumatics." 

"  Well,  but  you  ain't  afraid  of  ghosts  and  rheumatism  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  don't  know  as  I  be,  sir.  But  then,  there's  the 
pheasants  a  breedin',  and  there's  four  brood  of  flappers  in  the 
withey  bed,  and  a  sight  o'  young  hares  in  the  spinneys.  I  be 
hard  put  to  to  mind  it  all." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are,"  said  Tom,  putting  on  his  coat,  and 
shouldering  his  rod ;  "  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  a  turn  at  it 
myself,  to  help  you,  if  you'll  only  drop  those  razors. 


THE  NIGHT-WATCH.  411 

"  I  wishes  you  would,  sir,**  said  the  keeper,  from  behind ;  "  if 
gen'l'meu'd  sometimes  take  a  watch  at  nights,  they'd  find  out 
as  keepers  hadn't  all  fair-weather  work,  I'll  warrant,  if  they're 
to  keep  a  good  head  o'  game  about  a  place ;  'taint  all  popping 
off  guns,  and  lunching  under  hayricks,  I  can  tell  'em — no,  nor 
half  on  it." 

"  Where  do  you  think,  now,  this  fellow  we  were  talking  of 
:u;lls  his  fish  ?  "  said  Tom,  after  a  minute's  thought 

"  Mostly  at  Reading  Market,  I  hears  tell,  sir.  There's  the 
guard  of  the  mail,  as  goes  by  the  cross-roads  three  days  a  week, 
he  wur  a  rare  poaching  chap  hisself  down  in  the  west  afore  he 
got  his  place  along  of  his  bugle-playing.  They  do  say  as  he's 
open  to  any  game,  he  is,  from  a  buck  to  a  snipe,  and  drives  a 
trade  all  down  the  road  with  the  country  chaps." 

"What  day  is  Reading  Market?" 

"  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays,  sir." 

"  And  what  time  does  the  mail  go  by  ?  " 

"  Six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  sir,  at  the  cross-roads." 

"  And  they're  three  miles  off,  across  the  fields  ?  " 

*'  Thereabouts,  sir ;  I  reckon's  it  about  a  forty  minutes' 
stretch,  and  no  time  lost." 

"  There'll  be  no  more  big  fish  caught  on  the  fly  to-day,"  said 
Tom,  after  a  minute's  silence,  as  they  neared  the  house. 

The  wind  had  fallen  dead,  and  not  a  spot  of  cloud  in  the 
sky. 

"  Not  afore  nightfall,  I  think,  sir ; "  and  the  keeper  disap- 
peared towards  the  offices. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE    NIGHT-WATCH. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please,  but  I'm  going  to  see  it  out." 
"  No  ;  but  I  say,  do  come  along ;  that's  a  good  fellow." 
"Not  I;  why,  we've  only  just  come  out.     Didn't  you  hear? 

Wurley  dared  me  to  do  a  night's  watching  and  I  said  I  meant 

to  do  it." 

"  Yes ;  so  did  I.     But  we  can  change  our  minds.     What's 

the  good  of  having  a  mind  if  you  can't  change  it !    &  Sevrepcu  JTWS 

QpovnSes  o-o^wTcpat;  isn't  that  good  Greek  and  good  sense  ?" 
"  I  don't  see  it.     They'll  only  laugh  and  sneer  if  we  go  back 

now." 

"They'll  laugh  at  us  twice  as  much  if  we  don't.     Fancy  1 

they're  just  beginning  pool  now  on  that  stunning  table.     Come 

along,  Brown ;  don't  miss  your  chance.     We  shall  be  sure  to 


412  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

divide  the  pools,  as  we've  missed  the  claret.  Cool  hands  and 
cool  heads,  you  know !  Green  on  brown,  pink  your  player  in 
hand !  That's  a  good  deal  pleasanter  than  squatting  here  all 
night  on  the  damp  grass." 

"  Very  likely." 

"  But  you  won't?  Now,  do  be  reasonable.  Will  you  come 
if  I  stop  with  you  another  half-hour?" 

"No." 

«  An  hour  then  ?     Say  till  ten  o'clock  ?  " 

"  If  I  went  at  all,  I  would  go  at  once." 

"  Then  you  won't  come  ?  " 

"No." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  sovereign  you  never  see  a  poacher,  and  then 
how  sold  you  will  be  in  the  morning!  It  will  be  much  worse 
coming  in  to  breakfast  with  empty  hands  and  a  cold  in  the 
head,  than  going  in  now.  They  will  chaff  then,  I  grant  you." 

"  Well,  then,  they  may  chaff  and  be  hanged,  for  I  sha'n't  go 
in  now." 

Tom's  interlocutor  put  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
heather  mixture  shooting-coat,  and  took  a  turn  or  two  of  some 
dozen  yards,  backwards  and  forwards  above  the  place  where 
our  hero  was  sitting.  He  didn't  like  going  in  and  facing  the 
pool-players  by  himself ;  so  he  stopped  once  more  and  re-opened 
the  conversation. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  by  watching  all  night,  Brown  ?" 

"To  show  the  keeper,  and  those  fellows  in-doors,  that  I 
mean  what  I  say.  I  said  I'd  do  it,  and  I  will." 

"  You  don't  want  to  catch  a  poacher,  then?" 

"I  don't  much  care  :  I'll  catch  one  if  he  comes  in  my  way 
—or  try  it  on,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  say,  Brown,  I  like  that ;  as  if  you  don't  poach  yourself. 
Why,  I  remember  when  the  Whiteham  keeper  spent  the  best 
part  of  a  week  outside  the  college  gates,  on  the  look-out  for 
you  and  Drysdale,  and  some  other  fellows." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  have  more  fellow-feeling.  I  suppose 
you  go  on  the  principle  of  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief." 

Tom  made  no  answer,  and  his  companion  went  on, — 

"  Come  along  now,  like  a  good  fellow.  If  you'll  come  in 
now,  we  can  come  out  again  all  fresh,  when  the  rest  go  to  bed." 

"Not  we.  I  sha'n't  go  in.  But  you  can  come  out  again,  if 
you  like ;  you'll  find  me  hereabouts." 

The  man  in  the  heather  mixture  had  now  shot  his  last  bolt, 
and  took  himself  off  to  the  house,  leaving  Tom  by  the  river- 
side. How  they  got  there  may  be  told  in  a  few  words.  After 


THE  NIGHT-WATCH.  413 

his  morning's  fishing,  and  conversation  with  the  keeper,  he 
had  gone  in  full  of  his  subject,  and  propounded  it  at  the 
breakfast-table.  His  strictures  on  the  knife  and  razor  business 
produced  a  rather  warm  d.scussion,  which  merged  in  the  ques- 
tion whether  a  keeper's  life  was  a  hard  one,  till  something  was 
said  implying  that  Wurley's  men  were  overworked.  The 
master  took  this  in  high  dudgeon,  and  words  ran  high.  In 
the  discussion,  Tom  remarked  (apropos  of  night-work)  that  he 
would  never  ask  another  man  to  do  what  he  would  not  do 
himself ;  which  sentiment  was  endorsed  by,  amongst  others, 
the  man  in  the  heather  mixture.  The  host  had  retorted,  that 
they  had  better  in  that  case  try  it  themselves ;  which  remark 
had  the  effect  of  making  Tom  resolve  to  cut  short  his  visit, 
and  in  the  mean  time  had  brought  him  and  his  ally  to  the 
river-side  on  the  night  in  question. 

The  first  hour,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  enough  for  the 
ally,  and  so  Tom  was  left  in  company  with  a  plaid,  a  stick,  and 
a  pipe,  to  spend  the  night  by  himself. 

It  was  by  no  means  the  first  night  he  bad  spent  in  the  open 
air,  and  promised  to  be  a  pleasant  one  for  camping  out.  It 
was  almost  the  longest  day  in  the  year,  and  the  weather  was 
magnificent.  There  was  yet  an  hour  of  daylight,  and  the 
place  he  had  chosen  was  just  the  right  one  for  enjoying  the 
evening. 

He  was  sitting  under  one  of  a  clump  of  huge  old  alders, 
growing  on  the  thin  strip  of  land  already  noticed,  which 
divided  the  main  stream  from  the  deep  artificial  ditch  which 
fed  the  water-meadows.  On  his  left  the  emerald-green  meadows 
stretched  away  till  they  met  the  enclosed  corn  land,  On  his 
right  ran  the  main  stream,  some  fifty  feet  in  breadth  at  this 
point ;  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  was  a  rough  piece  of 
ground,  half  withey  bed,  half  copse,  with  a  rank  growth  of 
rushes  at  the  water's  edge.  These  were  the  chosen  haunts  of 
moor-hen  and  water-rat,  whose  tracks  could  be  seen  by  dozens, 
like  small  open  doorways,  looking  out  on  to  the  river,  through 
which  ran  mysterious  little  paths  into  the  rush-wilderness 
beyond. 

The  sun  was  now  going  down  behind  the  copse,  through  which 
his  beams  came  aslant,  checkered  and  mellow.  The  stream  ran 
dimpling  down  by  him,  sleepily  swaying  the  masses  of  weed, 
tinder  the  surface  and  on  the  surface ;  and  the  trout  rose  under 
the  banks,  as  some  moth  or  gnat  or  gleaming  beetle  fell  into 
the  stream ;  here  and  there  one  more  frolicsome  than  his  breth- 
ren would  throw  himself  joyously  into  the  air.  The  swifts 
rushed  close  by  him,  in  companies  of  five  or  six,  and  wheeled, 


414  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

and  screamed,  and  dashed  away  again,  skimming  along  the 
water,  baffling  his  eye  as  he  tried  to  follow  their  flight.  Two 
kingfishers  shot  suddenly  up  on  to  their  supper  station,  on  a 
stunted  willow  stump,  some  twenty  yards  below  him,  and  sat 
there  in  the  glory  of  their  blue  backs  and  cloudy  red  waist- 
coats, watching  with  long,  sagacious  beaks  pointed  to  the  water 
beneath,  and  every  now  and  then  dropping  like  flashes  of  light 
into  the  stream,  and  rising  again  with  what  seemed  one  motion, 
to  their  perches.  A  heron  or  two  were  fishing  about  the  mead- 
ows ;  and  he  watched  them  stalking  about  in  their  sober  quaker 
coats,  or  rising  on  slow  heavy  wing,  and  lumbering  away  home 
with  a  weird  cry.  He  heard  the  strong  pinions  of  the  wood 
pigeon  in  the  air,  and  then  from  the  trees  above  his  head  came 
the  soft  call,  "  Take-two-cow-Taffy,  take-two-cow-Taffy,"  with 
which  that  fair  and  false  bird  is  said  to  have  beguiled  the  hap- 
less Welchman  to  the  gallows.  Presently,  as  he  lay  motion- 
less, the  timid  and  graceful  little  water-hens  peered  out  from 
their  doors  in  the  rushes  opposite,  and,  seeing  no  cause  for 
fear,  stepped  daintily  into  the  water,  and  were  suddenly  sur- 
rounded by  little  bundles  of  black  soft  down,  which  went  pad- 
dling about  in  and  out  of  the  weeds,  encouraged  by  the  occa- 
sional sharp,  clear,  parental  "keck — keck,"  and  merry  little 
dabchicks  popped  up  in  mid-stream,  and  looked  round,  and 
nodded  at  him,  pert  and  voiceless,  and  dived  again ;  even  old 
cunning  water-rats  sat  up  on  the  bank  with  round  black  noses 
and  gleaming  eyes,  or  took  solemn  swims  out,  and  turned  up 
their  tails  and  disappeared  for  his  amusement.  A  comfortable 
low  came  at  intervals  from  the  cattle,  revelling  in  the  abundant 
herbage.  All  living  things  seemed  to  be  disporting  themselves, 
and  enjoying,  after  their  kind,  the  last  gleams  of  the  sunset, 
which  were  making  the  whole  vault  of  heaven  glow  and  shim- 
mer ;  and,  as  he  watched  them,  Tom  blessed  his  stars  as  he 
contrasted  the  river  side  with  the  glare  of  lamps  and  the  click 
of  balls  in  the  noisy  pool-room. 

Before  it  got  dark  he  bethought  him  of  making  sure  of  his 
position  once  more ;  matters  might  have  changed  since  he  chose 
it  before  dinner.  With  all  that  he  could  extract  from  the 
keeper,  and  his  own  experience  in  such  matters,  it  had  taken 
him  several  hours  hunting  up  and  down  the  river  that  after- 
noon before  he  had  hit  on  a  night-line.  But  he  had  persevered, 
knowing  that  this  was  the  only  safe  evidence  to  start  from,  and 
at  last  had  found  several,  so  cunningly  set  that  it  was  clear  that 
it  was  a  firstrate  artist  in  the  poaching  line  against  whom  he 
had  pitted  himself.  These  lines  must  have  been  laid  almost 
under  his  nose  on  that  very  day,  as  the  freshness  of  the  baits 


THE  NIGHT-WATCH.  415 

proved.  The  one  which  he  had  selected  to  watch  by  was  under 
the  bank,  within  a  few  yards  of  the  clump  of  alders  where  he 
was  now  sitting.  There  was  no  satisfactory  cover  near  the 
others ;  so  he  had  chosen  this  one,  where  he  would  be  perfectly 
concealed  behind  the  nearest  trunk  from  any  person  who  might 
come  in  due  time  to  take  up  the  line.  With  this  view,  then, 
he  got  up,  and  stepping  carefully  on  the  thickest  grass  where 
his  foot  would  leave  no  mark,  went  to  the  bank,  and  felt  with 
the  hook  of  his  stick  after  the  line.  It  was  all  right,  and  he 
returned  to  his  old  seat. 

And  then  the  summer  twilight  came  on,  and  the  birds  dis- 
appeared, and  the  hush  of  night  settled  down  on  river  and 
copse  and  meadow — cool  and  gentle  summer  twilight  after  the 
hot,  bright  day.  He  welcomed  it  too,  as  it  folded  up  the  land- 
scape, and  the  trees  lost  their  outline,  and  settled  into  soft 
black  masses  rising  here  and  there  out  of  the  white  mist,  which 
seemed  to  have  crept  up  to  within  a  few  yards  all  around  him 
unawares.  There  was  no  sound  now  but  the  gentle  murmur  of 
the  water,  and  an  occasional  rustle  of  reeds,  or  of  the  leaves 
over  his  head,  as  a  stray  wandering  puff  of  air  passed  through 
them  on  its  way  home  to  bed.  Nothing  to  listen  to,  and  noth- 
ing to  look  at ;  for  the  moon  had  not  risen,  and  the  light  mist 
hid  everything  except  a  star  or  two  right  up  above  him.  So, 
the  outside  world  having  left  him  for  the  present,  he  was  turned 
inwards  on  himself. 

This  was  all  very  well  at  first ;  and  he  wrapped  the  plaid 
round  his  shoulders  and  leaned  against  his  tree,  and  indulged 
in  a  little  self-gratulation.  There  was  something  of  strange- 
ness and  adventure  in  his  solitary  night-watch,  which  had 
its  charm  for  a  youngster  of  twenty-one ;  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  not  running  word,  of  doing  what  he  had  said  he  would 
do,  while  others  shirked  and  broke  down,  was  decidedly  pleas- 
ant. 

But  this  satisfaction  did  not  last  very  long,  and  the  night 
began  to  get  a  little  wearisome,  and  too  cool  to  be  quite  com- 
fortable. By  degrees  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  self-im- 
posed task  crept  into  his  head.  He  dismissed  them  for  a  time 
by  turning  his  thoughts  to  other  matters.  The  neighborhood 
of  Englebourn,  some  two  miles  up  above  him,  reminded  him  of 
the  previous  summer ;  and  he  wondered  how  he  should  get  on 
with  his  cousin  when  they  met.  He  should  probably  see  her 
the  next  day,  for  he  would  lose  no  time  in  calling.  Would  she 
receive  him  well  ?  Would  she  have  much  to  tell  him  about 
Mary? 

He  had  been  more  hopeful  on  this  subject  of  late,  but  the 


416  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

loneliness,  the  utter  solitude  and  silence  of  his  position,  as  he 
sat  there  in  the  misty  night,  away  from  all  human  habitations, 
was  not  favorable  somehow  to  hopefulness.  He  found  himself 
getting  dreary  and  sombre  in  heart,  more  and  more  so  as  the 
minutes  rolled  on,  and  the  silence  and  loneliness  pressed  on  him 
more  and  more  heavily.  He  was  surprised  at  his  own  down- 
heartedness,  and  tried  to  remember  how  he  had  spent  former 
nights  so  pleasantly  out  of  doors.  Ah,  he  had  always  had  a 
companion  within  call,  and  something  to  do — cray  fishing,  bat 
fowling,  or  something  of  the  kind  ?  Sitting  there,  doing  noth- 
ing, he  fancied,  must  make  it  so  heavy  to-night.  By  a  strong 
effort  of  will  he  shook  off  the  oppression.  He  moved,  and 
hummed  a  tune  to  break  the  silence  ;  he  got  up  and  walked  up 
and  down,  lest  it  should  again  master  him.  If  wind,  storm, 
pouring  rain,  anything  to  make  sound  or  movement,  would  but 


corne 


But  neither  of  them  came,  and  there  was  little  help  in  sound 
or  movement  made  by  himself.  Besides,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  much  walking  up  and  down  might  defeat  the  object  of  his 
watch.  No  one  would  come  near  while  he  was  on  the  move ; 
and  he  was  probably  making  marks  already  which  might  catch 
the  eye  of  the  setter  of  the  night-lines  at  some  distance,  if  that 
cunning  party  waited  for  the  morning  light,  and  might  keep 
him  away  from  the  place  altogether. 

So  he  sat  down  again  on  his  old  seat,  and  leant  hard  against 
the  alder  trunk,  as  though  to  steady  himself,  and  keep  all 
troublesome  thoughts  well  in  front  of  him.  In  this  attitude  of 
defence,  he  reasoned  with  himself  on  the  absurdity  of  allowing 
himself  to  be  depressed  by  the  mere  accidents  of  place  and 
darkness  and  silence ;  but  all  the  reasoning  at  his  command 
didn't  alter  the  fact.  He  felt  the  enemy  advancing  again,  ana, 
casting  about  for  help,  fell  back  on  the  thought  that  he  was 
going  through  a  task,  holding  to  his  word,  doing  what  he  had 
said  he  would  do ;  and  this  brought  him  some  relief  for  the 
moment.  He  fixed  his  mind  steadily  on  this  task  of  his ;  but 
alas,  here  again,  in  his  very  last  stronghold  the  enemy  began 
to  turn  his  flank,  and  the  position  every  minute  became  more 
and  more  untenable. 

He  had  of  late  fallen  into  a  pestilent  habit  of  cross-question- 
ing  himself  on  anything  which  he  was  about — setting  up  him- 
self like  a  cock  at  Shrove-tide,  and  pelting  himself  with  inex- 
orable "  whys  ?  "  and  "  wherefores  ?  A  pestilent  habit  truly 
he  had  found  it,  and  one  which  left  a  man  no  peace  of  his  life 
— a  relentless,  sleepless  habit,  always  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  him,  but  never  so  viciously  alert,  that  he  remembered,  as  on 
this  night. 


THE  NIGHT  WATCH.  417 

And  so  this  questioning  self,  which  would  never  be  denied 
for  long,  began  to  examine  him  as  to  his  proposed  night's 
work.  This  precious  task,  which  he  was  so  proud  of  going 
through  with,  on  the  score  of  which  he  had  been  in  his  heart 
crowing  over  others,  because  they  had  not  taken  it  on  them,  or 
had  let  it  drop,  what  then  was  the  meaning  of  it? 

"What  was  he  out  there  for?  What  had  become  out  to 
do?"  They  were  awkward  questions.  He  tried  several  an- 
swers, and  was  driven  from  one  to  another  till  he  was  bound 
to  admit  that  he  was  out  there  that  night,  partly  out  of  pique 
and  partly  out  of  pride  :  and  that  his  object  (next  to  earning 
the  pleasure  of  thinking  himself  a  better  man  than  his  neigh- 
bors) was,  if  so  be,  to  catch  a  poacher.  "  To  catch  a  poacher  ? 
What  business  had  he  to  be  catching  poachers  ?  If  all  poach- 
ers were  to  be  caught,  he  would  have  to  be  caught  himself." 
He  had  just  had  an  unpleasant  reminder  of  this  fact  from  him 
of  the  heather  mixtures — a  Parthian  remark  which  he  had 
thrown  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  off,  and  which  had  stuck. 
"  But  then,"  Tom  argued,  "  it  was  a  very  different  thing,  his 
poaching — going  out  for  a  day's  lark  after  game,  which  he 
didn't  care  a  straw  for,  but  only  for  the  sport — and  that  of 
men  making  a  trade  of  it,  like  the  man  the  keeper  spoke  of. 
Why  ?  How  different  ?  If  there  were  any  difference,  was  it 
one  in  his  favor?"  Avoiding  this  suggestion,  he  took  up  new 
ground.  "  Poachers  were  always  the  greatest  blackguards  in 
their  neighborhoods,  pests  of  society,  and  ought  to  be  put 
down.  Possibly — at  any  rate  he  had  been  one  of  the  frater- 
nity in  his  time,  and  was  scarcely  the  m~.:.i  to  be  casting  stones 
at  them.  But  his  poaching  had  alwayo  been  done  thought- 
lessly. How  did  he  know  that  others  had  worse  motives?" 

And  so  he  went  on,  tossing  the  matter  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  his  mind,  and  getting  more  and  more  uncomfortable, 
and  unable  to  answer  to  his  own  satisfaction  the  simple  ques- 
tion, "  What  right  have  you  to  be  out  here  on  this  errand  ?" 

He  got  up  a  second  time  and  walked  up  and  down,  but  with 
no  better  success  than  before.  The  change  of  position  and  ex- 
ercise did  not  help  him  out  of  his  difficulties.  And  now  he  got 
a  step  further.  If  he  had  no  right  to  be  there,  hadn't  he  better 
go  up  to  the  house  and  say  so,  and  go  to  bed  like  the  rest  ? 
No,  his  pride  couldn't  stand  that.  But  if  he  couldn't  go  in, 
he  might  turn  into  a  barn  or  out-house ;  nobody  would  be  any 
the  wiser  then,  and  after  all  he  was  not  pledged  to  stop  on  one 
spot  all  night  ?  It  was  a  tempting  suggestion,  and  he  was  very 
near  yielding  to  it  at  once.  While  he  wavered,  a  new  set  of 
thoughts  came  up  to  back  it.  _  How,  if  he  stayed  there,  and  a 


418  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

gang  of  night  poachers  oame  ?  He  knew  that  many  of  them 
were  desperate  men.  He  had  no  arms ;  what  could  he  do 
against  them?  Nothing;  but  he  might  be  maimed  for  life  in 
a  night  row  which  he  hiid  no  business  to  be  in — murdered, 
perhaps.  He  stood  still  and  listened,  long  and  painfully. 

Every  moment,  as  he  listened,  the  silence  mastered  him  more 
and  more,  and  his  reason  became  more  and  more  powerless.  It 
was  such  a  silence — a  great,  illimitable,  vague  silence !  The 
silence  of  a  deserted  house,  where  he  could  at  least  have  felt 
that  he  was  bounded  somewhere,  by  wall  and  floor  and  roof — 
where  men  must  have  lived  and  worked  once,  though  they 
might  be  there  no  longer — would  have  been  nothing;  but  this 
silence  of  the  huge,  wide,  out-of-doors  world,  where  there  was 
nothing  but  air  and  space  around  and  above  him  and  the  ground 
beneath,  it  was  getting  irksome,  intolerable,  awful !  The  great 
silence  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him,  "You  are  alone,  alone, 
alone ! "  and  he  had  never  known  before  what  horror  lurked  in 
that  thought. 

Every  moment  that  he  stood,  still  the  spell  grew  on  him,  and 
yet  he  dared  not  move ;  and  a  strange,  wild  feeling  of  fear — 
unmistakable  physical  fear,  which  made  his  heart  beat  and  his 
limbs  tremble — seized  on  him.  He  was  ready  to  cry  out,  to 
fall  down,  to  run,  and  yet  there  he  stood  listening,  still  and 
motionless. 

The  critical  moment  in  all  panics  must  come  at  last.  A  wild 
and  grewsome  hissing  and  snoring,  which  seemed  to  come  from 
the  air  just  over  his  head,  made  him  start  and  spring  forward, 
and  gave  him  the  use  of  his  limbs  again,  at  any  rate,  though 
they  would  not  have  been  worth  much  to  him  had  the  ghost 
or  hobgoblin  appeared,  whom  he  half  expected  to  see  the  next 
moment.  Then  came  a  screech,  which  seemed  to  flit  along  the 
rough  meadow  opposite,  and  come  towards  him.  He  drew  a  long 
breath,  for  he  knew  tha't  sound  well  enough  ;  it  was  nothing 
after  all  but  the  owls. 

The  mere  realized  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  some  liv- 
ing creatures,  were  they  only  owls,  brought  him  to  his  senses. 
And  now  the  moon  was  well  up,  and  the  wayward  mist  had 
cleared  away,  and  he  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  solemn  birds 
every  now  and  then,  beating  over  the  rough  meadow  back- 
wards and  forwards  and  over  the  shallow  water,  as  regularly 
as  trained  pointers. 

He  threw  himself  down  again  under  his  trees,  and  now  be- 
thought himself  of  his  pipe.  Here  was  a  companion  which, 
wonderful  to  say,  he  had  not  thought  of  before  since  the  night 
wt  in.  He  pulled  it  out,  but  paused  before  lighting.  Nothing 


THE  NIGHT  WATCH.  419 

was  so  likely  to  betray  his  whereabouts  as  tobacco.  True,  but 
anything  was  better  than  such  another  fright  as  he  had  had, 
*'  so  here  goes,"  he  thought ;  "  if  I  keep  off  all  the  poachers  in 
Berkshire ; "  and  he  accordingly  lighted  up,  and,  with  the  help 
of  his  pipe,  once  more  debated  with  himself  the  question  of 
btating  a  retreat. 

After  a  sharp  inward  struggle,  he  concluded  to  stay  and  see 
it  out.  He  should  despise  himself,  more  than  he  cared  to  face, 
if  he  gave  in  now.  If  he  left  that  spot  before  morning,  the 
motive  would  be  sheer  cowardice.  There  might  be  fifty  other 
good  reasons  for  going ;  but  if  he  went,  his  reason  would  be 
fear  and  nothing  else.  It  might  have  been  wrong  and  foolish 
to  come  out ;  it  must  be  to  go  in  now.  "  Fear  never  made  a 
man  do  a  right  action,"  he  summed  up  to  himself;  "so  here  I 
stop,  come  what  may  of  it.  I  think  I've  seen  the  worst  of  it 
now.  I  was  in  a  real  blue  funk,  and  no  mistake.  Let's  see, 
wasn't  I  laughing  this  morning  at  the  watcher  who  didn't  like 
passing  a  night  by  the  river?  Well,  he  has  got  the  laugh  of 
me  now,  if  he  only  knew  it.  I've  learnt  one  lesson  to-night  at 
any  rate ;  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  very  hard  on  cowards 
again." 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  pipe,  he  was  a  man  again, 
and,  moreover,  noth withstanding  the  damp,  began  to  feel  sleepy, 
now  that  his  mind  was  thoroughly  made  up,  and  his  nerves 
were  quiet.  So  he  made  the  best  of  his  plaid,  and  picked  a 
softish  place,  and  went  off  soon  into  a  sort  of  dog  sleep,  which 
lasted  at  intervals  through  the  rest  of  the  short  summer  night. 
A  poor  thin  sort  of  sleep  it  was,  in  which  he  never  altogether 
lost  his  consciousness,  and  broken  by  short  intervals  of  actual 
wakefulness,  but  a  blessed  release  from  the  self-questionings 
and  panics  of  the  early  night. 

He  woke  at  last  with  a  shiver.  It  was  colder  than  he  had 
yet  felt  it,  and  it  seemed  lighter.  He  stretched  his  half-torpid, 
limbs,  and  sat  up.  Yes,  it  was  certainly  getting  light,  for  he 
could  just  make  out  the  figures  on  the  face  of  his  watch  which 
he  pulled  out.  The  dawn  was  almost  upon  him,  and  his  night- 
watch  was  over.  Nothing  had  come  of  it  as  yet,  except  his 
fright,  at  which  he  could  now  laugh  comfortably  enough  ;  prob- 
ably nothing  more  might  come  of  it  after  all,  but  he  had  done 
the  task  he  had  set  himself  without  flinching,  and  that  was  a 
satisfaction.  He  wound  up  his  watch,  which  he  had  forgotten 
to  do  the  night  before,  and  then  stood  up,  and  threw  his  damp 
plaid  aside,  and  swung  his  arms  across  his  chest  to  restore  cir- 
culation. The  crescent  moon  was  high  up  in  the  sky,  faint  and 
white,  and  he  could  scarcely  now  make  out  the  stars,  which 


420  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOED. 

were  fading  out  as  the  glow  in  the  north-east  got  stronger  and 
broader. 

Forgetting  for  a  moment  the  purpose  of  his  vigil,  he  was 
thinking  of  a  long  morning's  fishing,  and  had  turned  to  pick 
up  his  plaid  and  go  off  to  the  house  for  his  fishing-rod,  when 
he  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  dry  wood  snapping.  He  lis- 
tened intently ;  and  the  next  moment  it  came  again,  some  way 
off,  but  plainly  to  be  heard  in  the  intense  stillness  of  the  morn- 
ing. Some  living  thing  was  moving  down  the  stream.  An- 
other  moment's  listening,  and  he  was  convinced  that  the  sound 
came  from  a  hedge  some  hundred  yards  below. 

He  had  noticed  the  hedge  before  ;  the  keeper  had  stopped 
up  a  gap  in  it  the  day  before,  at  the  place  where  it  came  down 
to  the  water,  with  some  old  hurdles  and  dry  thorns.  He  drew 
himself  up  behind  his  alder,  looking  out  from  behind  it  cau- 
tiously towards  the  point  from  which  the  sound  came.  He 
could  just  make  out  the  hedge  through  the  mist,  but  saw 
nothing. 

But  now  the  crackling  began  again,  and  he  was  sure  that  a 
man  was  forcing  his  way  over  the  keeper's  barricade.  A  mo* 
ment  afterwards  he  saw  a  figure  drop  from  the  hedge  into  the 
slip  in  which  he  stood.  He  drew  back  his  head  hastily,  and  his 
heart  beat  like  a  hammer  as  he  waited  the  approach  of  the 
stranger.  In  a  few  seconds  the  suspense  was  too  much  for 
him,  for  again  there  was  perfect  silence.  He  peered  out  a  sec- 
ond time  cautiously  round  the  tree,  and  now  he  could  make 
out  the  figure  of  a  man  stooping  by  the  water-side  just  above 
the  hedge,  and  drawing  in  a  line.  This  was  enough  and  he  drew 
back  again,  and  made  himself  small  behind  the  tree :  now  he 
was  sure  that  the  keeper's  enemy,  the  man  he  had  come  out  to 
take,  was  here.  His  next  halt  would  be  at  the  line  which  was 
set  within  a  few  yards  of  the  place  where  he  stood.  So  the 
struggle  which  he  had  courted  was  come !  All  his  doubts  of 
the  night  wrestled  in  his  mind  for  a  minute  ;  but,  forcing  them 
down,  he  strung  himself  up  for  the  encounter,  his  whole  frame 
trembling  with  the  excitement,  and  his  blood  tingling  through 
his  veins  as  though  it  would  burst  them.  The  next  minute 
was  as  severe  a  trial  of  nerve  as  he  had  ever  been  put  to,  and 
the  sound  of  a  stealthy  tread  on  the  grass  just  below  came  to 
him  as  a  relief.  It  stopped,  and  he  heard  the  man  stoop,  tken 
came  a  stir  in  the  water,  and  the  flapping  as  of  a  fish  being 
landed. 

Now  Was  his  time !  He  sprang  from  behind  the  tree,  and, 
the  next  moment,  was  over  the  stooping  figure  of  the  poacher. 
Before  he  could  seize  him,  the  man  sprung  up,  and  grappled 


THE  NIGHT  WATCH.  421 

with  him.  They  had  come  to  a  tight  lock  at  once,  for  the 
poacher,  had  risen  so  close  under  him  that  he  could  not  catch 
his  collar  and  hold  him  off.  Too  close  to  strike,  it  was  a  des- 
perate trial  of  strength  and  bottom. 

Tom  knew  in  a  moment  that  he  had  his  work  cut  out  for 
him.  He  felt  the  nervous  power  of  the  frame  he  had  got  hold 
of  as  he  drove  his  chin  into  the  poacher's  shoulder,  and  arched 
his  back,  and  strained  every  muscle  in  his  body  to  force  him 
backwards,  but  in  vain.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  hold  his 
own ;  but  he  felt  that  he  might  hold  it  yet,  as  they  staggered 
on  the  brink  of  the  back  ditch,  stamping  the  grass  and  marsh 
mangolds  into  the  ground,  and  drawing  deep  breaths  through 
their  set  teeth.  A  slip,  a  false  foothold,  a  failing  muscle,  and 
it  would  be  over ;  down  they  must  go — who  would  be  upper- 
most? 

The  poacher  trod  on  a  soft  place,  and  Tom  felt  it,  and,  throw- 
ing himself  forward,  was  reckoning  on  victory,  but  reckoning 
without  his  host ;  for,  recovering  himself  with  a  twist  of  the 
body  which  brought  them  still  closer  together,  the  poacher 
locked  his  leg  behind  Tom's  in  a  crook  which  brought  the 
wrestlings  of  his  boyhood  into  his  head  with  a  flash,  as  they 
tottered  for  another  moment,  and  then  losing  balance,  went 
headlong  over  with  a  heavy  plunge  and  splash  into  the  deep 
back  ditch,  locked  tight  in  each  other's  arms. 

The  cold  water  closed  over  them,  and  for  a  moment  Tom 
held  as  tight  as  ever.  Under  or  above  the  surface,  it  was  all 
the  same,  he  couldn't  give  in  first.  But  a  gulp  of  water,  and 
the  singing  in  his  ears,  and  a  feeling  of  choking,  brought  him 
to  his  senses,  helped  too  by  the  thought  of  his  mother  and  Mary, 
and  love  of  the  pleasant  woi'ld  up  above.  The  folly  and  use- 
lessness  of  being  drowned  in  a  ditch  on  a  point  of  honor  stood 
out  before  him  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  been  thinking  of  nothing 
else  all  his  life  ;  and  he  let  go  his  hold — much  relieved  to  find 
that  his  companion  of  the  bath  seemed  equally  willing  to  be 
quit  of  him — and  struggled  to  the  surface,  and  seized  the  bank, 
gasping  and  exhausted. 

His  first  thought  was  to  turn  round  and  look  for  his  adver- 
sary. The  poacher  was  by  the  bank  too,  a  few  feet  from  him. 
His  cap  had  fallen  off  in  the  struggle,  and,  all  chance  of  con- 
cealment being  over,  he  too  had  turned  to  face  the  matter  out, 
and  their  eyes  met. 

« Good  God !  Harry !  is  it  you? " 

Harry  Winburn  answered  nothing;  and  the  two-dragged 
their  feet  out  of  the  soft,  muddy  bottom,  and  scrambled  on  to 
the  bank,  and  then  with  a  sort  of  common  instinct  sat  down, 


422  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

dripping  and  foolish,  each  on  the  place  he  had  reached,  and 
looked  at  one  another.  Probably  two  more  thoroughly  bewil- 
dered lieges  of  her  majesty  were  not  at  that  moment  facing 
one  another  in  any  corner  of  the  United  Kingdom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MARY    IN    MAYFAIE. 

ON  the  night  which  our  hero  spent  by  the  side  of  the  river? 
with  the  results  detailed  in  the  last  chapter,  there  was  a  great 
ball  in  Brook  Street,  Mayfair.  It  was  the  height  of  the  season ; 
and,  of  course,  balls,  concerts,  and  parties  of  all  kinds  were 
going  on  iu  all  parts  of  the  Great  Babylon,  but  the  entertain- 
ment in  question  was  the  event  of  that  evening.  Persons 
behind  the  scenes  would  have  told  you  at  once,  had  you  hap- 
pened to  meet  them,  and  inquire  on  the  subject  during  the 
previous  ten  days,  that  Brook  Street  was  the  place  in  which 
everybody  who  went  anywhere  ought  to  spend  some  hours 
between  eleven  and  three  on  this  particular  evening.  If  you 
did  not  happen  to  be  going  there,  you  had  better  stay  quietly 
at  your  club,  or  elsewhere,  and  not  speak  of  your  engagements 
for  that  night. 

A  great  awning  had  sprung  up  in  the  course  of  the  day  over 
the  pavement  in  front  of  the  door,  and  as  the  evening  closed 
in,  tired  lawyers  and  merchants,  on  their  return  from  the  city, 
and  the  riders  and  drivers  on  their  way  home  from  the  park, 
might  have  seen  Holland's  men  laying  red  drugget  over  the 
pavement,  and  Gunter's  carts  coming  and  going,  and  the  police 
"  moving  on  "  the  street  boys  and  servant-maids,  and  other 
curious  members  of  the  masses,  who  paused  to  stare  at  the 
preparations. 

Then  came  the  lighting  up  of  the  rooms,  and  the  blaze  of 
pure  white  light  from  the  uncurtained  ball-room  windows 
spread  into  the  street,  and  the  musicians  passed  in  with  their 
instruments.  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  the  carriages  of  a  few 
intimate  friends,  who  came  early  at  the  hostess'  express  desire, 
began  to  drive  up,  and  the  Hansom  cabs  of  the  contemporaries 
of  the  eldest  son,  from  which  issued  guardsmen  and  foreign- 
office  men,  and  other  dancing-youth  of  the  most  approved 
description.  Then  the  crowd  collected  again  round  the  door — 
a  sadder  crowd  now  to  the  eye  of  any  one  who  had  time  to 
look  at  it ;  with  sallow,  haggard-looking  men  here  and  there  on 
the  skirts  of  it,  and  tawdry  women  joking  and  pushing  to  the 
front,  through  the  powdered  footmen,  and  linkmen  in  red 
waistcoats,  already  clamorous  and  redolent  of  gin  and  beer,  and 


21  ART  IN  M AT FAIR. 

scarcely  kept  back  by  the  half-dozen  constables  of  the  A  divi- 
sion, told  off  for  the  special  duty  of  attending  and  keeping 
order  on  so  important  an  occasion. 

Then  comes  a  rush  of  carriages,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  the 
line  stretches  away  half  round  Grosvenor  Square,  and  moves  at 
a  foot's-pace  towards  the  lights  and  the  music  and  the  shouting 
street.  In  the  middle  of  the  line  is  the  comfortable  chariot  of 
our  friend,  Mr.  Porter — the  corners  occupied  by  himself  and 
his  wife,  while  Miss  Mary  sits  well  forward  between  them,  her 
white  muslin  dress,  looped  up  with  sprigs  of  heather,  spread 
delicately  on  either  side  over  their  knees,  and  herself  in  a 
pleasant  tremor  of  impatience  and  excitement. 

"  How  very  slow  Robert  is  to-day,  mamma !  we  shall  never 
get  to  the  house." 

"  He  cannot  get  on  faster,  my  dear.  The  carriages  in  front 
of  us  must  set  down,  you  know." 

"  But  I  wish  they  would  be  quicker.  I  wonder  whether  we 
shall  know  many  people  ?  Do  you  think  I  shall  get  partners  ?  " 

Not  waiting  for  her  mother's  reply,  she  went  on  to  name 
some  of  her  acquaintance,  whom  she  knew  would  be  there,  and 
bewailing  the  hard  fate  which  was  keeping  her  out  of  the  first 
dances.  Mary's  excitement  and  impatience  were  natural 
enough.  The  ball  was  not  like  most  balls.  It  was  a  great  bat- 
tle in  the  midst  of  the  skirmishes  of  the  season,  and  she  felt 
the  greatness  of  the  occasion. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Porter  had  for  years  past  dropped  into  a  quiet 
sort  of  dinner-giving  life,  in  which  they  saw  few  but  their  own 
friends  and  contemporaries.  They  generally  left  London  be- 
fore the  season  was  at  its  height,  and  had  altogether  fallen  out 
of  the  ball-giving  and  party-going  world.  Mary's  coming  out 
had  changed  their  way  of  life.  For  her  sake  they  had  spent 
the  winter  at  Rome,  and,  now  that  they  were  at  home  again, 
were  picking  up  the.  threads  of  old  acquaintance,  and  encoun- 
tering the  disagreeables  of  a  return  into  habits  long  disused 
and  almost  forgotten.  The  giver  of  the  ball  was  a  stirring  man 
in  political  life,  rich,  clever,  well  connected,  and  much  sought 
after.  He  was  an  old  schoolfellow  of  Mr.  Porter,  and  their  in- 
timacy had  never  been  wholly  laid  aside,  notwithstanding  the 
severance  of  their  paths  in  life.  Now  that  Mary  must  be  taken 
out,  the  Brook  Street  house  was  one  of  the  first  to  which  the 
Porters  turned,  and  the  invitation  to  this  ball  was  one  of  the 
first  consequences. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  neither  her  father  nor  mother  were 
in  sympathy  with  Mary  as  they  gradually  neared  the  place  of 
setting  down,  and  would  far  rather  have  been  going  to  a  much 


424  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

less  imposing  place,  where  they  could  have  driven  up  at  once 
to  the  door,  and  would  not  have  been  made  uncomfortable  by 
the  shoutings  of  their  names  from  servant  to  servant.  How- 
ever, after  the  first  plunge,  when  they  had  made  their  bows 
to  their  kind  and  smiling  hostess,  and  had  passed  on  into  the 
already  well-filled  rooms,  their  shyness  began  to  wear  off,  and 
they  could  in  some  sort  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  sight  from  a 
quiet  corner.  They  were  not  long  troubled  with  Miss  Mary. 
She  had  not  been  in  the  ball-room  two  minutes  before  the 
eldest  son  of  the  house  had  found  her  out  and  engaged  her  for 
the  next  waltz.  They  had  met  several  times  already,  and 
were  on  the  best  terms ;  and  the  freshness  and  brightness  of 
her  look  and  manner,  and  the  evident  enjoyment  of  her  part- 
ner, as  they  laughed  and  talked  together  in  the  intervals  of  the 
dance,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  other  young  men,  who 
began  to  ask  one  another  "  Who  is  Norman  dancing  with  ?  " 
and  to  ejaculate  with  various  strength,  according  to  their 
several  temperaments,  as  to  her  face  and  figure  and  dress. 

As  they  were  returning  towards  Mrs.  Porter,  Norman  was 
pulled  by  the  sleeve  more  than  once,  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  introduce  first  one  and  then  another  of  his  friends. 

Mary  gave  herself  up  to  the  fascination  of  the  scene.  She 
had  never  been  in  rooms  so  perfectly  lighted,  with  such  a  floor, 
such  exquisite  music,  and  so  many  pretty  and  well-bred  look- 
ing people,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  enjoy  it  with  all  her 
heart  and  soul,  and  danced  and  laughed  and  talked  herself  into 
the  good  graces  of  partner  after  partner,  till  she  began  to  at- 
tract the  notice  of  some  of  the  ill-natured  people  who  are  to  be 
found  in  everj  room,  and  who  cannot  pardon  the  pure  and 
buoyant  and  unsuspecting  mirth  which  carries  away  all  but 
themselves  in  its  bright  stream.  So  Mary  passed 'on  from  one 
partner  to  another,  with  whom  we  have  no  concern,  until  at  last 
a  young  lieutenant  in  the  guards,  who  had  just  finished  his 
second  dance  with  her,  led  up  a  friend  whom  he  begged  to  in- 
troduce. "  Miss  Porter — Mr.  St.  Cloud ;  "  and  then,  after  the 
usual  preliminaries,  Mary  left  her  mother's  side  again  and 
stood  up  by  the  side  of  her  new  partner. 

"  It  is  your  first  season,  I  believe,  Miss  Porter?" 

"  Yes ;  my  first  in  London. 

"  I  thought  so;  and  you  have  only  just  come  to  town?" 

"  We  came  back  from  Rome  six  weeks  ago,  and  have  been  in 
town  ever  since." 

"  But  I  am  sure  I  have  not  seen  you  anywhere  this  season 
until  to-night.  You  have  not  been  out  much  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  papa  and  mamma  are  very  good-natured, 


MAR  Y  IN  MA  YFAIB .  425 

and  go  wherever  we  are  asked  to  a  ball,  as  I  am  fond  of 
dancing." 

**  How  very  odd  !  and  yet  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have  re- 
membered it  if  we  had  met  before  in  town  this  year." 

"  Is  it  so  very  odd  ?  "  asked  Mary,  laughing.  "  London  is  a 
very  large  place.  It  seems  very  natural  that  two  people  should 
V>e  able  to  live  in  it  for  a  long  time  without  meeting." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  quite  mistaken.  You  will  find  out  very 
soon  how  small  London  is — at  least,  how  small  society  is ;  and 
you  will  get  to  know  every  face  quite  well — I  mean  the  face  of 
every  one  in  society." 

"  You  must  have  a  wonderful  memory  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  a  good  memory  for  faces,  and,  by  the  way,  I 
am  sure  I  have  seen  you  before ;  but  not  in  town,  and  I  cannot 
remember  where.  But  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  have  a 
memory  to  know  everybody  in  society  by  sight ;  you  meet 
every  night  almost ;  and  altogether  there  are  only  two  or  three 
hundred  faces  to  remember.  And  then  there  is  something  in 
the  look  of  people,  and  the  way  they  come  into  a  room  or  stand 
about,  which  tells  you  at  once  whether  they  are  amongst  those 
whom  you  need  trouble  yourself  about." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  seem  to  be  in  a  whirl  of 
faces,  and  can  hardly  ever  remember  any  of  them. 

"  You  will  soon  get  used  to  it.  By  the  end  of  the  season 
you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  And  you  ought  to  make  a  study 
of  it,  or  you  will  never  feel  at  home  in  London. 

"  I  must  make  good  use  of  my  time  then.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  know  everybody  here,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Almost  everybody." 

"  And  I  really  do  not  know  the  names  of  a  dozen  people." 

"  Will  you  let  me  give  you  a  lesson  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  yes ;  I  shall  be  much  obliged." 

"  Then  let  us  stand  here,  and  we  will  take  them  as  they  pass 
to  the  supper-room." 

So  they  stood  near  the  door-way  of  the  ball-room,  and  he  ran 
on,  exchanging  constant  nods  and  remarks  with  the  passers-by, 
as  the  stream  flowed  to  and  from  the  ices  and  cup,  and  then 
rattling  on  to  his  partner  with  the  names  and  short  sketches  of 
the  characters  and  peculiarities  of  his  large  acquaintance. 
Mary  was  very  much  amused,  and  had  no  time  to  notice  the 
ill-nature  of  most  of  his  remarks ;  and  he  had  the  wit  to  keep 
within  what  he  considered  the  most  innocent  bounds. 

"  There,  you  know  him,  of  course,"  he  said,  as  an  elderly 
sold?er-like  looking  man  with  a  star,  passed  them. 

**  Yes ;  at  least,  I  mean  I  know  him  by  sight.    I  saw  him  at 


426  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  Commemoration  at  Oxford  last  year.  They  gave  him  an 
honorary  degree  on  his  return  from  India." 

"  At  Oxford !  Were  you  at  the  Grand  Commemoration, 
then?" 

"  Yes.  The  Commemoration  Ball  was  the  first  public  ball  I 
was  ever  at." 

"  Ah  !  that  explains  it  all.  I  must  have  seen  you  there.  I 
told  you  we  had  met  before.  I  was  perfectly  sure  of  it." 

"  What !  were  you  there,  then  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  had  the  honor  of  being  present  at  your  first  ball, 
you  see." 

"  But  how  curious  that  you  should  remember  vne  !  " 

"Do  you  really  think  so?  Surely,  there  are  some  faces 
which,  once  seen,  one  can  never  forget." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  know  dear  Oxford." 

"I  know  it  too  well,  perhaps,  to  share  your  enthusiasm." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  spent  nearly  three  years  there." 

"  What,  were  you  at  Oxford  last  year  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  left  before  Commemoration :  but  I  went  up  for  the 
gayeties,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  as  I  shall  have  one  pleasant 
memory  of  the  place  now." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  you  don't  love  it !  But  what  college  were 
you  of?" 

"  Why,  you  talk  like  a  graduate.     I  was  of  St.  Amoroso." 

"  St.  Ambrose  !     That  is  my  college  !  " 

"  Indeed !  I  wish  we  had  been  in  residence  at  the  same 
time." 

"I  mean  that  we  almost  lived  there  at  the  Commemoration." 

"  Have  you  any  relation  there,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  relation,  only  a  distant  connection." 

"  May  I  ask  his  name  ?  " 

"Brown.     Did  you  know  him ?" 

"Yes.  We  were  not  in  the  same  set.  He  was  a  boating- 
man,  I  think?" 

She  felt  that  he  was  watching  her  narrowly  now,  and  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  herself  reasonably  composed.  As  it 
was  she  could  not  help  showing  a  little  that  she  felt  embar' 
rassed,  and  looked  down ;  and  changed  color  slightly,  busying 
herself  with  her  bouquet.  She  longed  to  continue  the  conver- 
sation, but  somehow  the  manner  of  her  partner  kept  her  from 
doing  so.  She  resolved  to  recur  to  the  subject  carelessly,  if 
they  met  again,  when  she  knew  him  better.  The  fact  of  his 
having  been  at  St.  Ambrose  made  her  wish  to  know  him  better, 
and  gave  him  a  good  start  in  her  favor.  But  for  the  moment 


MARY  AT  MA YFAIR.  427 

she  felt  that  she  must  change  the  subject;  so  looking  up,  she 
fixed  on  the  first  people  who  happened  to  be  passing,  and  asked 
who  they  were. 

"  Oh,  nobody.  Constituents,  probably,  or  something  of  that 
sort." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  you  see,  we  are  in  a  political  house  to-night.  So  you 
may  set  down  the  people  whom  nobody  knows,  as  troublesome 
ten-pounders,  or  that  kind  of  thing,  who  would  be  disagreeable 
at  the  next  election,  if  they  were  not  asked." 

"Then  you  do  not  include  them  in  society?" 

"  By  no  manner  of  means." 

"And  I  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  remember  their  faces?" 

"Of  course  not.  There  is  a  sediment  of  rubbish  at  almost 
every  house.  At  the  parties  here  it  is  political  rubbish.  To- 
morrow night,  at  Lady  Aubrey's — you  will  be  there,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  Well,  there  we  shall  have  the  scien- 
tific rubbish ;  and  at  other  houses  you  see  queer  artists,  and 
writing  people.  In  fact,  it  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world  to 
get  a  party  where  there  i»  nothing  of  the  kind,  and,  after  all, 
it  is  rather  amusing  to  watch  the  habits  of  the  different  spe- 
cies." 

"  Well,  to  me  the  rubbish,  as  you  call  it,  seems  much  like 
the  rest.  I  am  sure  those  people  were  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

"  Very  likely."  he  said,  lifting  his  eyebrows ;  "  but  you  may 
see  at  a  glance  that  they  have  not  the  air  of  society.  Here 
again,  look  yourself.  You  can  see  that  these  are  constituents." 

To  the  horror  of  St.  Cloud,  the  advancing  constituents  made 
straight  for  his  partner. 

"  Mary,  my  dear !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  "  where  have  you 
been?  We  have  lost  you  ever  since  the  Jast  dance." 

"  I  have  been  standing  here,  mamma,''1  she  said ;  and  then, 
slipping  from  her  late  partner's  arm,  she  made  a  demure  little 
bow,  and  passed  into  the  ball-room  with  her  father  and  mother. 

St.  Cloud  bit  his  lip,  and  swore  at  himself,  under  hist>reath, 
as  he  looked  after  them.  "What  an  infernal  idiot  I  must  have 
been  not  to  know  that  her  people  would  be  sure  to  turn  out 
something  of  that  sort !  "  thought  he.  "  By  jove*  I'll  go  after 
them,  and  set  myself  right,  before  the  little  minx  has  time  to 
think  it  over !  "  He  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  ball-room, 
but  then  thought  better  of  it,  or  his  courage  failed  him.  At 
any  rate,  he  turned  round  again,  and  sought  the  refr«ahment- 
room,  where  he  joined  a  knot  of  young  gentlemen  indulging  in 
delicate  little  raised  pies  and  salads,  and  liberal  potations  <** 


428  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

iced  claret  or  champagne  cup.  Amongst  them  was  the  guards- 
man,  who  had  introduced  him  to  Mary,  and  who  received  him. 
as  he  came  up,  with, — 

"  Well,  St.  Cloud,  I  hope  you're  alive  to  your  obligations  to 
me." 

"  For  shunting  your  late  partner  on  to  me  ?    Yes,  quite." 

"You  be  hanged !  "  replied  the  guardsman  ;  "  you  may  pre- 
tend what  you  please  now,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me  alone  till  I 
had  introduced  you." 

"Are  you  talking  about  the  girl  in  white  muslin  with  fern 
leaves  in  her  hair  ?  "  asked  another. 

"Yes  ;  what  do  you  think  of  her?" 

Devilish  taking,  I  think.     I  say,  can't  you  introduce  me  ? 
They  say  she  has  tin." 

"  I  can't  say  I  think  much  of  her  looks,"  said  St.  Cloud,  act- 
ing up  to  his  principle  of  telling  a  lie  sooner  than  let  his  real 
thoughts  be  seen. 

"Don't  you  ?  "  said  the  guai-dsman.  "  Well,  I  like  her  form 
better  than  anything  out  this  year.  Such  a  clean  stepper ! 
You  should  just  dance  with  her." 

And  so  they  went  on,  criticising  Mary  and  others  of  their 
partners,  exactly  as  they  would  have  a  stud  of  racers,  till  they 
found  themselves  sufficiently  refreshed  to  encounter  new  la- 
bors, and  broke  up,  returning  in  twos  and  threes  towards  the 
ball-room. 

St.  Cloud  attached  himself  to  the  guardsman,  and  returned 
to  the  charge. 

"You  seem  hit  by  that  girl,"  he  began.  "Have  you  known 
her  long  ?  " 

"  About  a  week — I  met  her  once  before  to-night." 

"  Do  you  know  her  people  ?    Who  is  her  father  ?  " 

"  A  plain-headed  old  party — you  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at 
her — but  I  hear  he  is  very  solvent." 

"Any  sons?" 

"  Don't  know.  I  like  your  talking  of  my  being  hit,  SU 
Cloud.  There  she  is;  I  shall  go  and  try  for  another  waltz." 

The  guardsman  was  successful,  and  carried  off  Mary  from 
her  father  and  mother,  who  were  standing  together  watching 
the  dancing.  St.  Cloud,  after  looking  them  well  over,  sought 
out  the  hostess,  and  begged  to  be  introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Porter,  gleaning,  at  the  same  time,  some  particulars  of  who 
they  were.  The  introduction  was  affected  in  a  minute,  the 
lady  of  the  house  being  glad  to  get  any  one  to  talk  to  the 
Porters,  who  were  almost  strangers  amongst  her  other  guests. 
Ohe  managed,  before  leaving  them,  to  whisper  to  Mrs.  Porter 
that  he  was  a  young  man  of  excellent  connections. 


MAR Y  AT  MA  YFAIS.  429 

St.  Cloud  made  the  most  of  his  time.  He  exerted  himself 
to  the  utmost  to  please,  and,  being  fluent  of  speech,  and 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  himself,  had  no  shyness  or  awkward- 
ness  to  get  over,  and  jumped  at  once  into  the  good  graces  of 
Mary's  parents.  When  she  returned  after  the  waltz,  she  found 
him,  to  her  no  small  astonishment,  deep  in  conversation  with 
her  mother,  who  was  listening  with  a  pleased  expresssion  to 
his  small  talk.  He  pretended  not  to  see  her  at  first,  and  then 
begged  Mrs.  Porter  to  introduce  him  formally  to  her  daughter, 
though  he  had  already  had  the  honor  of  dancing  with  her. 

Mary  put  on  her  shortest  and  coldest  manner,  and  thought 
she  had  never  heard  of  such  impertinence.  That  he  should  be 
there  talking  so  familiarly  to  her  mother  after  the  slip  he  had 
made  to  her  was  almost  too  much  even  for  her  temper.  But 
she  went  off  for  another  dance,  and  again  returned  and  found 
him  still  there;  this  time  entertaining  Mr.  Porter  with  political 
gossip.  The  unfavorable  impression  began  to  wear  off,  and 
she  soon  resolved  not  to  make  up  her  mind  about  him  without 
some  further  knowledge. 

In  due  course  he  asked  her  to  dance  again,  and  they  stood 
up  in  a  quadrille.  She  stood  by  him  looking  straight  before 
her,  and  perfectly  silent,  wondering  how  he  would  open  the 
conversation.  He  did  not  leave  her  long  in  suspense. 

"  What  charming  people  your  father  and  mother  are,  Miss 
Porter ! "  he  said  ;  "  I  am  so  glad  to  have  been  introduced  to 
them." 

"  Indeed  !  You  are  very  kind.  We  ought  to  be  flattered 
by  your  study  of  us,  and  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will  find  it 
amusing." 

St.  Cloud  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  rejoinder,  and  was 
not  sorry  at  the  moment  to  find  himself  called  upon  to  per- 
form the  second  figure.  By  the  time  he  was  at  her  side  again 
he  had  recovered  himself. 

"  You  can't  understand  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  meet  some 
one  with  a  little  freshness  " — he  paused  to  think  how  he  should 
end  his  sentence. 

"Who  has  not  the  air  of  society,"  she  suggested.  "  Yes,  I 
quite  understand. 

"  Indeed,  you  quite  mistake  me.  Surely,  you  have  not 
taken  seriously  the  nonsense  I  was  talking  just  now?" 

"  I  am  a  constituent,  you  know — I  don't  understand  how  to 
take  the  talk  of  society." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  then,  that  you  are  angry  at  my  joke,  and  will 
not  believe  that  I  knew  you  father  perfectly  by  sight.  You 
really  cannot  seriously  fancy  that  I  was  alluding  to  any  one 


430  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

connected  with  you ; "  and  then  he  proceeded  to  retail  the 
particulars  he  had  picked  up  from  the  lady  of  the  house,  as  if 
they  had  been  familiar  to  him  for  years,  and  to  launch  out  again 
into  praises  of  her  father  and  mother.  JVlary  looked  straight 
np  in  his  face,  and,  though  he  did  not  meet  her  eye,  his  man- 
ner was  so  composed,  that  she  began  to  doubt  her  own  senses, 
and  then  he  suddenly  changed  the  subject  to  Oxford  and  the 
Commemoration,  and  by  the  end  of  the  set  could  flatter  himself 
that  he  had  quite  dispelled  the  cloud  which  had  looked  so 
threatening. 

Mary  had  a  great  success  that  evening.  She  danced  every 
dance,  and  might  have  had  two  or  three  partners  at  once,  if 
they  would  have  been  of  any  use  to  her.  When,  at  last,  Mr. 
Porter  insisted  that  he  would  keep  his  horses  no  longer,  St. 
Cloud  and  the  guardsman  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  and 
were  assiduous  in  the  cloak-room.  Young  men  are  pretty  much 
like  a  drove  of  sheep  ;  any  one  who  takes  a  decided  line  on 
certain  matters,  is  sure  to  lead  all  the  rest.  The  guardsman 
left  the  ball  in  the  firm  belief,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  that 
Mary  "  had  done  his  business  for  life  ;  "  and,  being  quite 
above  concealment,  persisted  in  singing  her  praises  over  his  cigar 
at  the  club,  to  which  many  of  the  dancers  adjourned  ;  and 
from  that  night  she  became  the  fashion  with  the  set  in  which 
St.  Cloud  lived.  The  more  enterprising  of  them,  he  amongst 
the  foremost,  were  soon  intimate  in  Mr.  Porter's  house,  and 
spoke  well  of  his  dinners.  Mr.  Porter  changed  his  hour  of  rid- 
ing in  the  park  at  their  suggestion,  and  now  he  and  his  daughter 
were  always  sure  of  companions.  Invitations  multiplied,  for 
Mary's  success  was  so  decided,  that  she  floated  her  astonished 
parents  into  a  whirl  of  balls  and  breakfasts.  Mr.  Porter  and 
his  wife  were  flattered  themselves,  and  pleased  to  see  their 
daughter  admired  and  enjoying  herself  ;  and  in  the  next  six 
weeks  Mary  had  the  opportunity  of  getting  all  the  good  and  the 
bad  which  a  girl  of  eighteen  can  extract  from  a  London  season. 

The  test  was  a  sevei-e  one.  Two  months  of  constant  excite- 
ment, of  pleasure-seeking  pure  and  simple,  will  not  leave  people 
just  as  they  found  them  ;  and  then  Mary's  habits,  and  thoughts 
and  ways  of  looking  at  and  judging  of  people  and  things,  were 
much  changed  by  the  time  that  the  gay  world  melted  away 
from  Mayfair  and  Belgravia,  and  it  was  time  for  all  respectable 
peoplel  to  pull  down  the  blinds  and  shut  the  shutters  of  their 
town  houses. 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  XIGHT-V'ATCH.  431 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

WHAT    CAME   OF    THE   NIGHT-WATCH. 

THE  last  knot  of  the  dancers  came  out  of  the  club,  and  were 
strolling  up  St.  James'  Street,  and  stopping  to  chaff  the  itin- 
erant coffee  vendor,  who  was  preparing  his  stand  at  the  corner 
of  Piccadilly  for  his  early  customers,  just  about  the  time  that 
Tom  was  beginning  to  rouse  himself  under  the  alder  tree,  ami 
stretch  his  stiffened  limbs,  and  sniff  the  morning  air.  By  the 
time  the  guardsman  had  let  himself  into  his  lodgings  in  Mount 
Street,  our  hero  had  undergone  his  unlooked-for  bath,  and  was 
sitting  in  a  state  of  utter  bewilderment  as  to  what  was  next  to 
be  said  or  done,  dripping  and  disconcerted,  opposite  to  the 
equally  dripping,  and,  to  all  appearance,  equally  disconcerted, 
poacher. 

At  first  he  did  not  look  higher  than  his  antagonist's  boots 
and  gaiters,  and  spent  a  few  seconds  by  the  way  in  consider- 
ing whether  the  arrangement  of  nails  on  the  bottom  of  Harry's 
boots  was  better  than  his  own.  He  settled  that  it  must  be 
better  for  wading  on  slippery  stones,  and  that  he  would  adopt 
it,  and  then  passed  on  to  wonder  whether  Harry's  boots  were 
as  full  of  water  as  his  own,  and  whether  corduroys,  wet 
through,  must  not  be  very  uncomfortable  so  early  in  the 
morning,  and  congratulated  himself  on  being  in  flannels. 

And  so  he  hung  back  for  second  after  second,  playing  with 
any  absurd  little  thought  that  would  come  into  his  head  and 
give  him  ever  so  brief  a  respite  from  the  effort  of  facing  the 
situation,  and  hoping  that  Harry  might  do  or  say  something  to 
open  the  ball.  This  did  not  happen.  He  felt  that  the  longer 
he  waited  the  harder  it  would  be.  He  must  begin  himself. 
So  he  raised  his  head  gently,  and  took  a  sidelong  look  at 
Harry's  face,  to  see  whether  he  could  not  get  some  hint  for 
starting,  from  it.  But  scarcely  had  he  brought  his  eyes  to 
bear,  when  they  met  Harry's,  peering  dolefully  up  from  under 
his  eyebrows,  on  which  the  water  was  standing  unwiped,  while 
a  piece  of  green  weed,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  have  presence 
of  mind  enough  to  remove,  trailed  over  his  dripping  locks. 
There  was  something  in  the  sight  which  tickled  Tom's  sense  of 
humor.  He  had  been  prepared  for  sullen  black  looks  and 
fierce  words ;  instead  of  which  he  was  irresistibly  reminded  of 
schoolboys  caught  by  their  master  using  a  crib,  or  in  other 
like  flagrant  delict. 

Harry  lowered  his  eyes  at  once,  but  lifted  them  the  next 
moment  with  a  look  of  surprise,  as  he  heard  Tom  burst  into  a 
hearty  fit  of  laughter.  After  a  short  struggle  to  keep  serious, 
he  ioined  in  it  himself. 


432  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  By  Jove,  though,  Harry,  it's  no  laughing  matter,"  Tom 
said  at  last,  getting  on  to  his  legs,  and  giving  himself  a  shake. 

Harry  only  replied  by  looking  most  doleful  again,  and  pick- 
ing the  weed  out  of  his  hair,  as  he,  too,  got  up. 

"What  in  the  world's  to  be  done?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Master  Tom." 

"  I'm  very  much  surprised  to  find  you  at  this  work,  Harry." 

"I'm  sure,  so  be  I,  to  find  you,  Master  Tom." 

Tom  was  not  prepared  for  this  line  of  rejoinder.  It  seemed 
to  be  made  with  perfect  innocence,  and  yet  it  put  him  in  a 
corner  at  once.  He  did  not  care  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of 
Harry's  surpi-ise,  or  to  what  work  he  alluded ;  so  he  went  off 
on  another  tack. 

"Let  us  walk  up  and  down  a  bit  to  dry  ourselves.  Now, 
Harry,  you'll  speak  to  me  openly,  man  to  man,  as  an  old  friend 
should — won't  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Master  Tom,  and  glad  to  do  it." 

"How  long  have  you  taken  to  poaching?" 

"  Since  last  Michaelmas,  when  they  turned  me  out  o'  on* 
cottage,  and  tuk  a-jray  my  bit  o'  land,  and  did  all  as  they  could 
to  break  me  down." 

"  Who  do  you  i  jean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Squire  Wurley  as  was  then — not  this  one,  but  the 
last — and  his  lawj«r,  and  Farmer  Tester." 

"  Then  it  was  through  spite  to  them  that  you  took  to  it  ?  " 

"  Nay,  'twarn't  Altogether  spite,  tho'  I  won't  say  but  what  I 
might  ha'  thought,  o'  bein'  upsides  wi'  them." 

"  What  was  it  then  besides  spite?" 

"  Want  o'  work.  I  haven't  had  no  more'n  a  matter  o'  six 
weeks'  reg'lar  woick  ever  since  last  fall." 

"  How's  that ?     Have  you  tried  for  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  Master  Tom,  I  won't  tell  a  lie  about  it.  I  don't  see 
an  I  wur  bound  to  go  round  wi'  my  cap  in  my  hand  a  beggin* 
for  a  day's  work  to  the  likes  o'  them.  They  knowed  well 
snough  as  I  wur  there,  ready  and  willing  to  work,  and  they 
knowed  as  I  wur  able  to  do  as  good  a  day's  work  as  o'er  a  man 
in  the  parish  ;  and  there's  been  plenty  o'  work  goin',  but  they 
thought  as  1  should  starve,  and  have  to  come  and  beg  for't 
from  one  or  t'other  on  'em.  They  would  ha'  liked  to  ha'  seen 
me  clean  broke  down,  that's  wut  they  would,  and  in  the 
house,"  and  he  paused  as  if  his  thoughts  were  getting  a  little 
unmanageable. 

"  But  you  might  have  gone  to  look  for  work  elsewhere." 

"I  can't  see  as  I  had  any  call  to  leave  the  place  where  I  wur 
bred  up,  Master  Tom.  That  wur  just  wut  they  wanted.  Why 
should  I  let  'em  drive  m'out  ?  " 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  NIGHT-WA  TCH.  43$ 

"  Well,  Harry,  I'm  not  going  to  blame  you.  I  only  want  to 
know  more  about  what  has  been  happening  to  you  that  I  may 
be  able  to  advise  and  help  you.  Did  you  ever  trv  for  work, 
or  go  and  tell  your  story,  at  the  Rectory  ?  " 

"  Try  for  work  there  !     No,  I  never  went  arter  vork  there." 

Tom  went  on  without  noticing  the  change  in  Harry's  tone 
and  manner, — 

"Then  I  think  you  ought  to  have  gone.  I  know  my  cousin, 
Miss  Winter,  is  so  anxious  to  help  any  man  out  of  work,  and 
particularly  you  ;  for — "  The  whole  story  of  Patty  flashed 
into  his  mind,  and  made  him  stop  short,  and  stammer,  and  look 
anywhere  except  at  Harry.  How  he  could  have  forgotten  it 
for  a  moment  in  that  company  was  the  wonder.  All  his  ques- 
tioning and  patronizing  powers  went  out  of  him,  and  he  felt 
that  their  positions  were  changed,  and  that  he  was  the  culprit. 
It  was  clear  that  Harry  knew  nothing  yet  of  his  own  relations 
with  Patty.  Did  he  even  suspect  them?  It  must  all  come 
out  now  at  any  rate,  for  both  their  sakes,  however  it  might 
end.  So  he  turned  again,  and  met  Harry's  eye,  which  was 
now  cold  and  keen,  and  suspicious. 

"  You  knows  all  about  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  know  that  you  have  been  attached  to  Simon's 
daughter  for  a  long  time,  and  that  he  is  against  it.  I  wish  I 
could  help  you  with  all  my  heart.  In  fact,  I  did  feel  my  way 
towards  speaking  to  him  about  it  last  year,  when  I  was  in 
hopes  of  getting  you  the  gardener's  place  there.  But  I  could 
see  that  1  should  do  no  good." 

"  I've  heard  say  as  you  was  acquainted  with  her  when  she 
was  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was,  when  she  was  with  her  aunt  in  Oxford.  What 
then?" 

"  'Twao  there  as  she  larnt  her  bad  ways." 

"  Bad  ways  !    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  means  as  she  larnt  to  dress  fine,  and  to  gee  herself  airs  to 
them  as  she'd  known  from  a  child,  and  as'd  ha'  gone  through 
fire  to  please  her." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  of  the  kind  in  her.  She  was  a  pleas- 
ant, lively  girl,  and  dressed  neatly,  but  never  above  her  station. 
And  I'm  sure  she  has  too  good  a  heart  to  hurt  an  old  friend." 

"  Wut  made  her  keep  shut  up  in  the  house  when  she  cum 
back?  ah,  for  weeks  and  weeks ; — and  arter  that,  wut  made  her 
BO  flighty  and  fickle  ?  carryin'  of  herself  as  proud  as  a  lady,  a 
mincin'  and  a  trapesin'  along,  wi'  all  the  young  farmers  a  foll- 
erin'  her,  like  a  fine  gentleman's  miss  ?  " 

"  Come,  Harry,  I  won't  listen  to  that.  You  don't  believe 
what  you're  saying,  you  know  her  better." 


434  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOED. 

"  You  knows  her  well  enough  by  all  seeminV 

*'  I  know  her  too  well  to  believe  any  harm  of  her." 

"  What  call  have  you  and  the  likes  o'  you  wi'  her?  'Tis  no 
good  comes  o'  such  company  keepin'." 

"  I  tell  you  again,  no  harm  has  come  of  it  to  her." 

"  Whose  hair  does  she  carry  about  then  in  that  gold  thing  as 
she  hangs  round  her  neck  ?" 

Tom  blushed  scarlet,  and  lowered  his  eyes  without  answering. 

"  Dost  know  ?  'Tis  thine,  by — ."  The  words  came  hissing 
out  between  his  set  teeth.  Tom  put  his  hands  behind  him,  ex- 
pecting to  be  struck,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  said, — 

"  Yes,  it  is  mine ;  and  I  tell  you  again,  no  harm  has  come 
of  it." 

"'Tis  a  lie.     I  knowed  how  'twas,  and  'tis  thou  has  done  it." 

Tom's  blood  tingled  in  his  veins  and  wild  words  rushed  to 
his  tongue,  as  he  stood  opposite  the  man  who  had  just  given 
him  the  lie,  and  who  waited  his  reply  with  clenched  hands  and 
laboring  breast  and  fierce  eye.  But  the  discipline  of  the  last 
year  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  stood  for  a  moment  or  two 
crushing  his  hands  together  behind  his  back,  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  answered, — 

"  Will  you  believe  my  oath,  then  ?  I  stood  by  your  side  at 
your  mother's  grave.  A  man  who  did  that  won't  lie  to  you, 
Harry.  I  swear  to  you  there's  no  wrong  between  me  and  her. 
There  never  was  fault  on  her  side.  I  sought  her.  She  never 
cared  for  me ;  she  doesn't  care  for  me.  As  for  that  locket,  I 
forced  it  on  her.  I  own  I  have  wronged  her,  and  wronged  you. 
1  have  repented  it  bitterly.  I  ask  your  forgiveness,  Harry ;  for 
the  sake  of  old  times,  for  the  sake  of  your  mother !  "  He  spoke 
from  the  heart,  and  saw  that  his  words  went  home.  "  Come, 
Harry,"  he  went  on,  "  you  won't  turn  from  an  old  playfellow, 
who  owns  the  wrong  he  has  done,  and  will  do  all  he  can  to 
make  up  for  it.  You'll  shake  hands,  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

Tom  paused,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

The  poacher's  face  worked  violently  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  he  seemed  to  struggle  once  or  twice  to  get  his  hand  out  in 
vain.  At  last  he  struck  it  suddenly  into  Tom's  turning  his  head 
away  at  the  same  time.  "  'Tis  what  mother  would  ha'  done," 
he  said,  "  thou  cans't  say  more.  There  'tis  then,  though  I 
never  thought  to  do't." 

The  curious  and  unexpected  explanation  brought  thus  to  a 
happy  issue,  put  Tom  into  high  spirits,  and  at  once  roused  the 
castle-building  power  within  him,  which  was  always  ready 
enough  to  wake  up. 

His  first  care  was  to  persuade  Harry  that  he  had  better  giro 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  NIGHT-WATCH.  435 

up  poaching,  and  in  this  he  had  much  less  difficulty  than  he  ex- 
pected, Harry  owned  himself  sick  of  the  life  he  was  leading 
already.  He  admitted  that  some  of  the  men  with  whom  he  had 
been  associating  more  or  less  for  the  last  year  were  the  great- 
est blackguards  in  the  neighborhood.  He  asked  nothing  better 
than  to  get  out  of  it.  But  how  ? 

This  was  all  Tom  wanted.  He  could  see  to  that;  nothing 
could  be  easier. 

"  I  shall  go  with  you  back  to  Englebourn  this  morning.  I'll 
just  leave  a  note  for  Wurley  to  say  that  I'll  be  back  some  time 
in  the  day  to  explain  matters  to  him,  and  then  will  be  off  at 
once.  We  shall  be  at  the  Rectory  by  breakfast-time.  Ah,  I 
forgot ; — well,  you  can  stop  at  David's  while  I  go  and  speak  to 
my  uncle  and  to  Miss  Winter." 

Harry  didn't  seem  to  see  what  would  be  the  good  of  this ; 
and  David,  he  said,  was  not  so  friendly  to  him  as  he  had  been. 

"  Then  you  must  wait  at  the  Red  Lion.  Don't  see  the  good 
of  it !  Why,  of  course,  the  good  of  it  is  that  you  must  be  set 
right  with  the  Englebourn  people — that's  the  first  thing  to  do.  I 
shall  explain  how  the  case  stands  to  my  uncle,  and  I  know  I  can 
get  him  to  let  you  have  your  land  again  if  you  stay  in  the  parish, 
even  if  he  can't  give  you  work  himself.  But  what  he  must  do  is, 
to  take  you  up,  to  show  people  that  he  is  your  friend,  Harry. 
Well,  then,  if  you  can  get  good  work — mind  it  must  be  real, 
good,  regular  work — at  Farmer  Grove's,  or  one  of  the  best 
farmers,  stop  here  by  all  means,  and  I  will  take  myself  the  first 
cottage  which  falls  vacant  and  let  you  have  it,  and  meantime 
you  must  lodge  with  old  David.  Oh,  '11  go  and  talk  him  round, 
never  fear.  But  if  you  can't  get  regular  work  here,  why  you 
go  off  with  flying  colors ;  no  sneaking  off  under  a  cloud  and 
leaving  no  address.  You'll  go  off  with  me,  as  my  servant,  if 
you  like.  But  just  as  you  please  about  that.  At  any  rate, 
you'll  go  with  me,  and  I'll  take  care  that  it  shall  be  known  that 
I  consider  you  as  an  old  friend.  My  father  has  always  got 
plenty  of  work  and  will  take  you  on.  And  then,  Harry,  after 
a  bit  you  may  be  sure  all  will  go  right,  and  I  shall  be  your  best 
man,  and  dance  at  your  wedding  before  a  year's  out." 

There  is  something  in  this  kind  of  thing  which  is  contagions 
and  irresistible.  Tom  thoroughly  believed  all  that  he  was  say- 
ing ;  and  faith,  even  of  such  a  poor  kind  as  believing  in  one's 
own  castles,  has  its  reward.  Common  sense  in  vain  suggested 
to  Harry  that  all  the  clouds  which  had  been  gathering  round 
him  for  a  year  were  not  likely  to  melt  away  in  a  morning. 
Prudence  suggested  that  the  sooner  he  got  away  the  better ; 
which  suggestion,  indeed,  he  handed  on  for  what  it  was  wortfc 


436  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

But  Tom  treated  prudence  with  sublime  contempt.  They 
would  go  together,  lie  said,  as  soon  as  any  one  was  up  at  the 
house,  just  to  let  him  in  to  change  his  things  and  write  a  note. 
Harry  needn't  fear  any  unpleasant  consequences.  Wurley 
\rasn  t  an  ill-natured  fellow  at  bottom,  and  wouldn't  mind  a 
few  fish.  Talking  of  fish,  where  was  the  one  he  had  heard 
kicking  just  now  as  Harry  hauled  in  the  line  ?  They  went  to 
the  place,  and,  looking  in  the  long  grass,  soon  found  the  dead 
trout,  still  on  the  night  line,  of  which  the  other  end  remained 
in  the  water.  Tom  seized  hold  of  it,  and  pulling  il  carefully 
in,  landed  another  fine  trout,  while  Harry  stood  by,  looking 
rather  sheepish.  Tom  inspected  the  method  of  the  lines,  which 
was  simple  but  awfully  destructive.  The  line  was  long  enough 
to  reach  across  the  stream.  At  one  end  was  a  heavy  stone,  at 
the  other  a  short  stake  cut  sharp,  and  driven  into  the  bank  well 
under  the  water.  At  intervals  of  four  feet  along  the  line  short 
pieces  of  fine  gimp  were  fastened,  ending  in  hooks  baited  alter- 
nately with  lobworms  and  gudgeon.  Tom  complimented  his 
companion  on  the  killing  nature  of  his  cross-line. 

"  Where  are  your  other  lines,  Harry?"  he  asked  j  "we  may 
as  well  go  and  take  them  up." 

"  A  bit  higher  up  stream,  Master  Tom ; "  and  so  they  walked 
up  stream  and  took  up  the  other  lines. 

"  They'll  have  the  finest  dish  of  fish  they've  seen  this  long 
time  at  the  house  to-day,"  said  Tom,  as  each  line  came  out 
with  two  or  three  fine  thick-shouldered  fish  on  it;  "I'll  tell  you 
What,  Harry,  they're  deuced  well  set,  these  lines  of  yours,  and 
do  you  credit.  They  do ;  I'm  not  complimenting  you." 

"  I  should  rather  like  to  be  off,  Master  Tom,  if  you  don't 
object.  The  mornin's  gettin'  on,  and  the  meu'll  be  about. 
'Twould  be  unked  for  I  to  be  caught." 

"  Well,  Harry,  if  you're  so  set  on  it  off  with  you,  but — " 

"  'Tis  too  late  now ;  here's  keeper." 

Tom  turned  sharp  round,  and,  sure  enough,  there  was  the 
keeper  coming  down  the  bank  towards  them,  and  not  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  off. 

"  So  it  is,  said  Tom ;  "  well,  only  hold  your  tongue,  and  do 
just  what  I  tell  you." 

The  keeper  came  up  quickly,  and  touching  his  hat  to  Tom, 
looked  inquiringly  at  him,  and  then  at  Harry.  Tom  nodded 
to  him,  as  if  everything  were  just  as  it  should  be.  He  was 
taking  a  two-pound  fish  off  the  last  line;  having  finished  which 
feat,  he  threw  it  on  the  ground  by  the  rest.  "There,  keeper," 
he  said,  "  there's  a  fine  dish  of  fish.  Now  pick  'em  up  and 
come  along." 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  NIGHT-WATCH.  437 

Never  was  keeper  more  puzzled.  He  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  lifting  the  little  short  hat  from  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  scratching  that  somewhat  thick  skull  of  his,  as  his  habit 
was  when  engaged  in  what  he  called  thinking,  conscious  that 
eomebody  ought  to  be  tackled,  and  that  he,  the  keeper,  was 
being  mystified,  but  quite  at  sea  as  to  how  he  was  to  set  him- 
self straight. 

"Wet,  bain't  'ee,  sir?"  he  said  at  last,  nodding  at  Tom's 
clothes. 

"  Dampish,  keeper,"  answered  Tom  ;  "  I  may  as  well  go  and 
change,  the  servants  will  be  up  at  the  house  by  this  time.  Pick 
up  the  fish  and  come  along.  You  do  up  the  lines,  Harry." 

The  keeper  and  Harry  performed  their  tasks,  looking  at  one 
another  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  like  the  terriers  of 
rival  butchers  when  the  carts  happen  to  stop  suddenly  in  the 
street  close  to  one  another.  Tom  watched  them,  mischievously 
delighted  with  the  fun,  and  then  led  the  way  up  to  the  house. 
When  they  came  to  the  stableyard  he  turned  to  Harry,  and 
said,  "Stop  here  ;  I  sha'n't  be  ten  minutes;"  adding  in  an  un- 
dertone, "Hold  your  tongue  now;"  and  then  vanished  through 
the  back-door,  and,  hurrying  up  to  his  room,  changed  as  quickly 
as  he  could. 

He  was  within  the  ten  minutes,  but  as  he  descended  the 
back  stairs  in  his  dry  things,  became  aware  that  his  stay  had 
been  too  long.  Noise  and  laughter  came  up  from  the  stable- 
yard,  and  shouts  of  "  Go  it  keper,"  "  Keper's  down,"  "  No  he 
bain't,"  greeted  his  astonished  ears.  He  sprang  down  the  last 
steps  and  rushed  into  the  stable-yard,  where  he  found  Harry 
at  his  second  wrestling  match  for  the  day,  while  two  or  three 
stablemen,  and  a  footman,  and  the  gardener,  looked  on  and 
cheered  the  combatants  with  the  remarks  he  had  heard  on  his 
way  down. 

Tom  made  straight  to  them,  and  tapping  Harry  on  the 
shoulder,  said, — 

"  Now  then,  come  along,  I'm  ready." 

Whereupon  the  keeper  and  Harry  disengaged,  and  the  latter 
picked  up  his  cap. 

"  You  bain't  goin',  sir  ?  "  said  the  keeper. 

"  Yes,  keeper." 

"  Not  along  wi'  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  keeper." 

"  What,  baiii't  I  to  take  un  ?  " 

«  Take  him !     No,  what  for  ?  " 

"  For  night  poachin',  look  at  all  them  fish,"  said  the  keeper 
indignantly,  pointing  to  the  shining  heap. 


TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  No,  no,  keeper ;  you've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  may 
five  him  the  lines  though,  Harry.  I've  left  a  note  for  your 
master  on  my  dressing-table,"  Tom  said,  turning  to  the  foot- 
man, "let  him  have  it  at  breakfast.  I'm  responsible  for 
him,"  nodding  at  Harry.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  hours,  and 
now  come  along." 

And,  to  the  keeper's  astonishment,  Tom  left  the  stable- 
yard,  accompanied  by  Harry. 

They  were  scarcely  out  of  hearing  before  the  stable-yard 
broke  out  into  uproarious  laughter  at  the  keeper's  expense,  and 
much  rude  banter  was  inflicted  on  him  for  letting  the  poacher 
go.  But  the  keeper's  mind  for  the  moment  was  full  of  other 
things.  Disregarding  their  remai-ks,  he  went  ou  scratching  his 
head,  and  burst  out  at  last  with, — 

"  Dang  un  ;  I  knows  I  should  ha'  drowed  'un." 

"Drow  your  grandmother,"  politely  remarked  one  of  the 
stablemen,  an  acquaintance  of  Harry  Winburn,  who  knew  his 
yepute  as  a  wrestler. 

"  I  should,  I  tell  'ee,"  said  the  keeper,  as  he  stooped  to  gather 
up  the  fish ;  "  and  to  think  as  he  should  ha'  gone  off. 
Master'll  be  like  any  wild  beast  when  he  hears  on't.  How 
s'mever,  'tis  Mr.  Brown's  doin's.  'Tis  a  queer  start  for  a 
gen'l'man  like  he  to  be  goin'  off  wi'  a  poacher  chap,  an'  callin5 
of  un  Harry.  'Tis  past  me  altogether.  But  I  s'pose  he  baint 
right  in's  'ead ; "  and  so,  soliloquizing,  he  carried  off  the  fish  to 
the  kitchen, 

Meantime,  on  their  walk  to  Englebourn,  Harry,  in  answer  to 
Tom's  inquiries,  explained  that  in  his  absence  the  stableman, 
his  acquaintance,  had  come  up  and  begun  to  talk.  The  keeper 
had  joined  in  and  accused  him  point-blank  of  being  the  man 
who  had  thrown  him  into  the  furze  bush.  The  story  of  the 
keeper's  discomfiture  on  that  occasion  being  well  known,  a 
laugh  had  been  raised  in  which  Harry  had  joined.  This 
brought  on  a  challenge  to  try  a  fall  then  and  there,  which 
Harry  had  accepted,  notwithstanding  his  long  morning's  work 
and  the  ducking  he  had  had.  They  laughed  over  the  story, 
though  Harry  could  not  help  expressing  his  fears  as  to  how  it 
might  all  end.  They  reached  Englebourn  in  time  for  break- 
fast. Tom  appsared  at  the  Rectory,  and  soon  he  and  Katie 
were  on  their  old  terms.  She  was  delighted  to  find  that  he 
had  had  an  explanation  with  Harry  Winburn,  and  that  there 
was  some  chance  of  bringing  that  sturdy  offender  once  more 
back  into  decent  ways ; — more  delighted  perhaps  to  hear  the 
way  in  which  he  spoke  of  Patty,  to  whom  after  breakfast  she 
paid  a  visit,  and  returned  in  due  time  with  the  unfortunate 
locket. 


WHAT  CAME  OF  Tin:  XIGUT-WATCH.  439 

Tom  felt  as  if  another  coil  of  the  chain  he  had  tied  about 
himself  had  fallen  off.  He  went  out  into  the  village,  consulted 
again  with  Harry,  and  returned  to  the  Rectory  to  consider 
what  steps  were  to  be  taken  to  get  him  work.  Katie  entered 
into  the  matter  heartily,  though  foreseeing  the  difficulties  ot 
the  case.  At  luncheon  the  rector  was  to  be  sounded  on  the 
subject  of  the  allotments.  But  in  the  middle  of  their  plans 
they  were  startled  by  the  news  that  a  magistrate's  warrant  had 
arrived  in  the  village  for  the  arrest  of  Harry  as  anight  poacher. 

Tom  returned  to  the  Grange  furious,  and  before  night  had 
had  a  worse  quarrel  with  young  Wurley  than  with  his  uncle 
before  him.  Had  duelling  been  in  fashion  still  in  England 
they  would  probably  have  fought  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  park 
before  night.  As  it  was  they  only  said  bitter  things,  and 
parted,  agreeing  not  to  know  one  another  in  future. 

Three  days  afterwards,  at  petty  sessions,  where  Tom  brought 
upon  himself  the  severe  censure  of  the  bench  for  his  conduct 
on  the  trial,  Harry  Winburn  was  committed  to  Reading  jail 
for  three  months. 

Readers  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  remember  the  picture 
of  our  hero's  mental  growth  during  the  past  year,  attempted  to 
be  given  in  a  late  chapter,  and  the  state  of  restless  dissatisfac- 
tion into  which  his  experiences  and  thoughts  and  readings  had 
thrown  him  by 'the  time  long  vacation  had  come  round  again, 
will  perhaps  be  prepared  for  the  catastrophe  which  ensued  on 
the  conviction  and  sentence  of  Harry  Winburn  at  petty  sessions. 

Hitherto,  notwithstanding  the  strength  of  the  new  and  revo- 
lutionary forces  which  were  mustering  round  it,  there  had  al- 
ways been  a  citadel  holding  out  in  his  mind,  garrisoned  by  all 
that  was  best  in  the  Toryism  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up 
• — by  loyalty,  reverence  for  established  order  and  established 
institutions  ;  by  family  traditions,  and  the  pride  of  an  inherited 
good  name.  But  now  the  walls  of  that  citadel  went  down  with 
a  crash,  the  garrison  being  put  to  the  sword,  or  making  a  way 
to  hide  in  out-of-the-way  corners,  and  wait  for  a  reaction. 

It  was  much  easier  for  a  youngster,  whose  attention  was 
once  turned  to  such  subjects  as  had  been  occupying  Tom,  to 
get  hold  of  wild  and  violent  beliefs  and  notions  in  those  days 
than  now.  The  state  of  Europe  generally  was  far  more  dead 
and  hopeless.  There  were  no  wars,  certainly,  and  no  expecta- 
tions of  wars.  But  there  was  a  dull,  beaten-down,  pent-up  feel- 
ing abroad,  as  if  the  lid  were  screwed  down  on  the  nations,  and 
the  thing  which  had  been,  however  cruel  and  heavy  and  mean, 
was  that  which  wns  to  remain  to  the  end.  England  was  better 
off  than  her  neighbors,  but  yet  in  bad  case.  In  the  south  and 


440  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFQKD. 

west  particularly,  several  causes  had  combined  to  spread  a  very 
bitter  feeling  abroad  amongst  the  agricultural  poor.  First 
amongst  these  stood  the  new  poor  law,  the  provisions  of  which 
were  rigorously  carried  out  in  most  districts.  The  poor  had  as 
yet  felt  the  harshness  only  of  the  new  system.  Then  the  land 
was  in  many  places  in  the  hands  of  men  on  their  last  legs,  the 
old  sporting  farmers,  who  had  begun  business  as  young  men 
while  the  great  war  was  going  on,  had  made  money  hand  over 
hand  for  a  few  years  out  of  the  war  prices,  and  had  tried  to  go 
on  living  with  greyhounds  and  yeomanry  uniforms — horse  to 
ride  and  weapon  to  wear — through  the  hard  years  which  had 
iollowed.  These  were  bad  masters  iu  every  way,  unthrifty, 
profligate,  needy,  and  narrow-minded.  The  younger  men  who 
were  supplanting  them  were  introducing  machinery,  threshing- 
machines,  and  winnowing-machines,  to  take  the  little  bread 
which  a  poor  man  was  still  able  to  earn  out  of  the  mouths  of 
his  wife  and  children — so  at  least  the  poor  thought  and  mut- 
tered to  one  another ;  and  the  mutterings  broke  out  every  now 
and  then  in  the  long  nights  of  the  winter  months  in  blazing 
ricks  and  broken  machines.  Game  preserving  was  on  the  in- 
crease. Australia  and  America  had  not  yet  become  familiar 
words  in  every  English  village,  and  the  labor  market  was  every- 
where overstocked ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  corn  laws  were 
still  in  force,  and  the  bitter  and  exasperating  strife  in  which 
they  went  out  was  at  its  height.  And  while  Swing  and  his 
myrmidons  were  abroad  in  the  counties,  and  could  scarcely  be 
kept  down  by  yeomanry  and  poor  law  guardians,  the  great 
towns  were  in  almost  worst  case.  Here,  too,  emigration  had 
not  yet  set  in  to  thin  the  labor  market ;  wages  were  falling,  and 
prices  rising ;  the  corn-law  struggle  was  better  understood  and 
far  keener  than  in  the  country ;  and  Chartism  was  gaining  force 
every  day,  and  rising  into  a  huge  threatening  giant,  waiting  to 
put  forth  his  strength,  and  eager  for  the  occasion  which  seemed 
at  hand. 

You  generation  of  young  Englishmen,  who  were  too  young 
then  to  be  troubled  with  such  matters,  and  have  grown  into 
manhood  since,  you  little  know — may  you  never  know ! — what 
it  is  to  be  living  the  citizens  of  a  divided  and  distracted  nation. 
For  the  time  that  danger  is  past.  In  a  happy  hour,  and  so  far 
as  man  can  judge,  in  time,  and  only  just  in  time,  came  the  re- 
peal of  the  corn  laws,  and  the  great  cause  of  strife,  and  the 
sense  of  injustice  passed  away  out  of  men's  minds.  The  nation 
wns  roused  by  the  Irish  famine,  and  the  fearful  distress  in 
other  parts  of  the  country,  to  begin  looking  steadily  and  seri- 
ously at  some  of  the  sores  which  were  festering  in  its  body, 


HUE  AND  CRY.  441 

and  undermining  health  and  life.  And  BO  the  tide  had  turned, 
and  England  had  already  passed  the  critical  point,  when  1848 
came  upon  Christendom,  and  the  who! 3  of  Europe  leapt  up  into 
a  wild  blaze  of  revolution 

Is  any  one  still  inclined  to  make  light  of  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened England  in  that  year,  to  sneer  at  the  10th  of  April,  and 
the  monster  petition,  and  the  monster  meetings  on  Kennington 
and  other  commons  ?  Well,  if  there  be  such  persons  amongst 
my  readers,  I  can  only  say  that  they  can  have  known  nothing 
of  what  was  going  on  around  them  and  below  them,  at  that 
time,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  their  vision  has  become  clearer 
since  then,  and  that  they  are  not  looking  with  the  same  eyes 
that  see  nothing,  at  the  signs  of  to-day.  For  that  there  are 
questions  still  to  be  solved  by  us  in  England,  in  this  current 
half-century,  quite  as  likely  to  tear  the  nation  in  pieces  as  the 
corn  laws,  no  man  with  half  an  eye  in  his  head  can  doubt.  They 
may  seem  little  clouds  like  a  man's  hand  on  the  horizon  just 
now,  but  they  will  darken  the  whole  heaven  before  long  unless 
we  can  find  wisdom  enough  amongst  us  to  take  the  little  clouds 
in  hand  in  time,  and  make  them  descend  in  soft  rain. 

But  such  matters  need  not  be  spoken  of  here.  All  I  want  to 
do  is  to  put  my  young  readers  in  a  position  to  understand  how 
it  was  that  our  hero  fell  away  into  beliefs  and  notions,  at  which 
Mrs.  Grundy  and  all  decent  people  could  only  lift  up  eyes  and 
hands  in  pious  and  respectable  horror,  and  became,  soon  after 
the  incarceration  of  his  friend  for  night  poaching,  little  better 
than  a  physical  force  Chartist  at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  In 
which  unhappy  condition  we  shall  now  have  to  take  a  look  or 
two  at  him  in  future  numbers. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

HUE   AND    CBY. 

AT  the  end  of  a  gusty,  wild  October  afternoon  a  man  leading 
two  horses  was  marching  up  and  down  the  little  plot  of  short 
turf  at  the  top  of  the  Hawk  s  Lynch.  Every  now  and  then  he 
would  stop  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  look  over  the  village,  and 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  somebody  from  that  quarter.  After 
being  well  blown  he  would  turn  to  his  promenade  again,  or  go 
in  under  the  clump  of  firs,  through  which  tho  rising  south-west 
wind,  rushing  up  from  the  vale  below,  was  beginning  to  maky 
a  moan ;  and,  hitching  the  horses  to  some  stump  or  bush,  and 
patting  and  coaxing  them  to  induce  them,  if  so  might  be,  to 
stand  quiet  for  awhile,  would  try  to  settle  himself  to  leeward  or 
one  of  the  larger  trees* 


442  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

But  the  fates  were  against  all  attempts  at  repose.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  produce  a  cheroot  from  his  case  and  light  it 
under  many  difficulties,  when  the  horses  would  begin  fidgeting, 
and  pulling  at  their  bridles,  and  shifting  round  to  get  their  tails 
to  the  wind.  They  clearly  did  not  understand  the  necessity  of 
the  position,  and  were  inclined  to  be  moving  stablewards.  So 
he  had  to  get  up  again,  sling  the  bridles  over  his  arm,  and  take 
to  his  march  up  and  down  the  plot  of  turf;  now  stopping  for  a 
moment  or  two  to  try  to  get  his  cheroot  to  burn  straight,  and 
pishing  and  pshawing  over  its  perverseness ;  now  going  again 
and  again  to  the  brow,  and  looking  along  the  road  which  led  to 
the  village,  holding  his  hat  on  tight  with  one  hand — for  by  this 
time  it  was  blowing  half  a  gale  of  wind. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  quite  the  hour  for  his  setting,  the  sun 
had  disappeared  behind  a  heavy  bank  of  wicked  slate-colored 
cloud,  which  looked  as  though  it  were  rising  straight  up  into 
the  western  heavens,  while  the  wind  whirled  along  and  twisted 
into  quaint  shapes  a  ragged  rift  of  light  vapor,  which  went 
hurrying  by,  almost  touching  the  tops  of  the  moaning  firs, 
Altogether  an  uncanny  evening  to  be  keeping  tryst  at  the  top 
of  a  wild  knoll ;  and  so  thought  our  friend  with  the  horses,  and 
showed  it,  too,  clearly  enough,  had  any  one  been  there  to  put 
a  construction  on  his  impatient  movements. 

There  was  no  one  nearer  than  the  village,  half  a  mile  and 
more  away ;  so,  by  way  of  passing  the  time,  we  must  exercise 
our  privilege  of  putting  into  words  what  he  is  half  thinking, 
half  muttering  to  himself, — 

"A  pleasant  night  I  call  this,  to  be  out  on  a  wild  goose 
chase.  If  ever  I  saw  a  screaming  storm  brewing,  there  it  comes. 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  stop  up  here  to  be  caught  in  it  for  all  the 
crack-brained  friends  I  ever  had  in  the  world ;  and  I  seem  to 
have  a  faculty  for  picking  up  none  but  cracked-brained  ones. 
I  wonder  what  the  plague  can  keep  him  so  long  :  he  mustliave 
been  gone  an  hour.  There  steady,  steady,  old  horse.  Confound 
this  weed !  What  rascals  tobacconists  are  J  You  never  can 
get  a  cheroot  now  worth  smoking.  Every  one  of  them  goes 
spluttering  up  the  side,  or  charring  up  the  middle,  and  tasting 
like  tow  soaked  in  saltpetre  and  tobacco  juice,  Well,  I  suppose 
I  shall  get  the  real  thing  in  India. 

**  India !  In  a  month  from  to-day  we  shall  be  off.  To  hear 
our  senior  major  talk,  one  might  as  well  be  going  to  the 
bottomless  pit  at  once.  Well,  he'll  sell  out,  that's  a  comfort. 
Gives  us  a  step,  and  gets  rid  of  an  old  ruffian.  I  don't  seem 
to  care  much  what  the  place  is  like  if  we  only  get  some  work; 
and  there  will  be  some  work  there  before  long,  by  all  accounts. 


HUE  AND  CRT.  443 

No  more  garrison  town  life,  at  any  rate.  And  if  I  have  any 
luck — a  man  may  get  a  chance  there. 

"  What  the  deuce  can  he  be  about  ?  This  all  comes  of  sen- 
timent, now.  Why  couldn't  I  go  quietly  off  to  India  without 
bothering  up  to  Oxford  to  see  him?  Not  but  what  it's  a 
pleasant  place  enough.  I've  enjoyed  my  three  days  there  un- 
commonly. Food  and  drink  all  that  can  be  wished,  and  plenty 
of  good  fellows  and  good  fun.  The  look  of  the  place,  too, 
makes  one  feel  respectable.  But,  by  George,  if  their  divinity 
is  at  all  like  their  politics,  they  must  turn  out  a  queer  set  of 
parsons — at  least,  if  Brown  picked  up  his  precious  notions  at 
Oxford.  He  always  was  a  headstrong  beggar.  What  was  it 
he  was  holding  forth  about  last  night?  Let's  see.  'The 
sacred  right  of  insurrection.'  Yes,  that  was  it,  and  he  talked 
as  if  he  believed  it  all  too ;  and,  if  there  should  be  a  row, 
which  don't  seem  unlikely,  by  Jove  I  think  he'd  act  on  it  in 
the  sort  of  temper  he's  in.  How  about  the  sacred  right  of 
getting  hung  or  transported  ?  I  shouldn't  wonder  to  hear  of 
that  some  day.  Gad !  suppose  he  should  be  in  for  an  instal- 
ment of  his  sacred  right  to-night.  He's  capable  of  it,  and  of 
lugging  me  in  with  him.  What  did  he  say  we  were  come  here 
for  ?  To  get  some  fellow  out  of  a  scrape,  he  said — some  sort 
of  poaching  radical  foster-brother  of  his,  who  had  been  in  jail, 
and  deserved  it,  too,  I'll  be  bound.  And  we  couldn't  go  down 
quietly  into  the  village  and  put  up  at  the  public,  where  I 
might  have  sat  in  the  tap,  and  not  run  the  chance  of  having 
my  skin  blown  over  my  ears,  and  my  teeth  down  my  throat,  on 
this  cursed  look-out  place,  because  he's  too  well  known  there. 
What  does  that  mean  ?  Upon  my  soul  it  looks  bad.  They 
may  be  lynching  a  J.  P.  down  there,  or  making  a  spread  eagle 
of  the  parish-constable  at  this  minute,  for  anything  I  know, 
and  as  sure  as  fate  if  they  are  I  shall  get  my  foot  in  it. 

"  It  will  read  sweetly  in  the  Army  News:  'A  court-martiai 
was  held  this  day  at  Chatham,  president,  Colonel  Smith,  of 
Her  Majesty's  101st  Regiment,  to  try  Henry  East,  a  lieutenant 
in  the  same  distinguished  corps,  who  has  been  under  arrest 
since  the  10th  ult.,  for  aiding  and  abetting  the  escape  of  a  con- 
vict, and  taking  part  in  a  riot  in  the  village  of  Englebourn,  in 
the  county  of  Berks.  The  defence  of  the  accused  was  that  he 
had  a  sentimental  friendship  for  a  certain  Thomas  Brown,  an 
undergi'aduate  of  St.  Ambrose  College,  Oxford,  etc.,  etc.;  and 
the  sentence  of  the  court — ' 

*'  Hang  it !  It's  no  laughing  matter.  Many  a  fellow  hag 
been  broken  for  not  making  half  such  a  fool  of  himself  as  I 
have  done,  coming  out  here  on  this  errand,  I'll  tell  T.  B.  a 
bit  of  my  mind  as  sure  as — 


444  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Hallo!  didn't  I  hear  a  shout?  Only  the  wind,  I  believe. 
How  it  does  blow  !  One  of  these  firs  will  be  down,  I  expect, 
just  now.  The  storm  will  burst  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Here  goes !  I  shall  ride  down  into  the  village,  let  what  will 
come  of  it.  Steady  now,  steady.  Stand  still,  you  old  fool ; 
can't  you  ? 

"  There,  now  I'm  all  right.  Solomon  said  something  about 
a  beggar  on  horseback.  Was  it  Solomon,  though?  Never 
mind.  He  couldn't  ride.  Never  had  ahorse  till  he  was  grown 
up.  But  he  said  some  uncommon  wise  things  about  having 
nothing  to  do  with  such  friends  as  T.  B.  So,  Harry  East,  if 
you  please,  no  more  tomfoolery  after  to-day.  You've  got  a 
whole  skin,  and  a  lieutenant's  commission  to  make  your  way  in 
the  world  with,  and  are  troubled  with  no  particular  crotchets 
yourself  that  need  ever  get  you  into  trouble.  So  just  you 
keep  clear  of  other  people's.  And  if  your  friends  must  be 
mending  the  world,  and  poor  man's  plastering,  and  running 
their  heads  against  stone  walls,  why,  just  you  let  go  of  their 
coat-tails." 

So  muttering  and  meditating,  Harry  East  paused  a  moment 
after  mounting,  to  turn  up  the  collar  of  the  rough  shooting 
coat  which  he  was  wearing,  and  button  it  up  to  the  chin,  be- 
fore riding  down  the  hill,  when,  in  the  hurlyburly  of  the  wind, 
a  shout  came  spinning  past  his  ears,  plain  enough  this  time ; 
he  heard  the  gate  at  the  end  of  Englebourn  Lane  down  below 
him  shut  with  a  clang,  and  saw  two  men  running  at  full  speed 
towards  him,  straight  up  the  hill. 

"  Oh  !  here  you  are  at  last,"  he  said,  as  he  watched  them. 
"Well,  you  don't  lose  your  time  now.  Somebody  must  be 
after  them.  What's  he  shouting  and  waving  his  hand  for  ?  I'm 
to  bring  the  cavalry  supports  down  the  slope,  I  suppose.  Well, 
here  goes  :  he  has  brought  off  his  pal  the  convict,  1  see — 

"  '  Says  he,  you've  'scaped  from  transportation 

All  upon  the  briny  main, 
So  never  give  way  to  no  temptation, 
And  don't  get  drunk  nor  prig  again!' 

There  goes  the  gate  again.     By  Jove,  what's  that?    Dragoons, 

as  I'm  a  sinner !     There's  going  to  be  the  d st  bear-fight " 

Saying  which,  Harry  East  dug  his  heels  into  his  horse's 
sides,  holding  him  up  sharply  with  the  curb  at  the  same  time, 
and  in  another  moment  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  solitary 
mound  on  which  he  had  been  perched  for  the  last  hour,  and  on 
the  brow  of  the  line  of  hill  out  of  which  it  rose  so  abruptly, 
just  at  the  point  for  which  the  two  runners  were  making.  lie 


HUE  AND  CRT.  445 

had  only  time  to  glance  at  the  pursuers,  and  saw  that  one  or 
two  rode  straight  on  the  track  of  the  fugitives,  while  the  rest 
skirted  away  along  a  parish  road  which  led  up  the  hill-side  by 
an  easier  ascent,  when  Tom  and  his  companion  were  by  his 
side.  Tom  seized  the  bridle  of  the  led  horse,  and  was  in  the 
saddle  with  one  spring. 

"Jump  up  behind,"  he  shouted  ;  "now  then  come  along." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  roared  East — in  that  wind  nothing  but  a 
shout  could  be  heard — pointing  over  his  shoulder  with  his 
thumb  as  they  turned  to  the  heath. 

"  Yeomanry ! " 

"After  you?" 

Tom  nodded,  as  they  broke  into  a  gallop,  making  straight 
across  the  heath  towards  the  Oxford  road.  They  were  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  advance  before  any  of  their  pursuers 
showed  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  behind  them.  It  was  already 
getting  dusk,  and  the  great  bank  of  cloud  was  by  this  time  all 
but  upon  them,  making  the  atmosphere  denser  and  darker 
every  second.  Then,  first  one  of  the  men  appeared  who  had 
ridden  straight  up  the  hill  under  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  and,  pull- 
ing up  for  a  moment,  caught  sight  of  them  and  gave  chase. 
Half  a  minute  later,  and  several  of  those  who  had  kept  to  the 
road  were  also  in  sight,  some  distance  away  on  the  left,  but 
still  near  enough  to  be  unpleasant;  and  they,  too,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  were  in  full  pursuit.  At  first  the  fugitives  held 
their  own,  and  the  distance  between  them  and  their  pursuers 
was  not  lessened,  but  it  was  clear  that  this  could  not  last. 
Anything  that  horse-flesh  is  capable  of,  a  real  good  Oxford  hack, 
such  as  they  rode,  will  do ;  but  to  carry  two  full-grown  men  at 
the  end  of  a  pretty  long  day,  away  from  fresh  horses  and 
moderate  weights,  is  too  much  to  expect  even  of  Oxford  horse- 
flesh ;  and  the  gallant  beast  which  Tom  rode  was  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  distress  when  they  struck  into  the  road.  There 
\vas  a  slight  dip  in  the  ground  at  this  place,  and  a  little  further 
on  the  heath  rose  suddenly  again,  and  the  road  ran  between 
high  banks  for  a  short  distance. 

As  they  reached  this  point  they  disappeared  for  the  moment 
from  the  yeomanry,  and  the  force  of  the  wind  was  broken  by 
the  banks,  so  that  they  could  breathe  more  easily,  and  hear  one 
another's  voices. 

Tom  looked  anxiously  round  at  the  lieutenant,  who  shrugged 
his  shoulders  in  answer  to  the  look,  as  he  bent  forward  to  ease 
his  own  horse,  and  said, — 

"  Can't  last  another  mile." 

"What's  to  be  done?" 


44  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

East  again  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  know,  Master  Tom,"  said  Harry  Winburn. 

"What?" 

?  Pull  up  a  bit,  sir." 

Tom  pulled  up,  and  his  horse  fell  into  a  walk  willingly 
enough,  while  East  passed  on  a  few  strides  ahead.  Harry  Wiri- 
burn  sprang  off. 

"  You  ride  on,  now,  Master  Tom,"  he  said,  "  I  knovs  s  the 
bieath  well ;  you  let  me  bide." 

"  No,  no,  Harry,  not  I.  I  won't  leave  you  now ;  so  let  them 
come,  and  be  hanged." 

East  had  pulled  up,  and  listened  to  their  talk. 

"  Look  here,  now,"  he  said  to  Harry ;  "  put  your  arm  over 
the  hind  part  of  his  saddle,  and  run  by  the  side ;  you'll  find 
you  can  go  as  fast  as  the  horse.  Now,  you  two  push  on,  and 
strike  across  the  heath.  I'll  keep  the  road,  and  take  off  this 
joker  behind,  who  is  the  only  dangerous  customer." 

"  That's  like  you,  old  boy,"  said  Tom,  "  then  we'll  meet  at 
the  first  public  beyond  the  heath  ?  "  and  they  passed  ahead  in 
their  turn,  and  turned  on  to  the  heath,  Harry  running  by  the 
side,  as  the  lieutenant  had  advised. 

East  looked  after  them,  and  then  put  his  horse  into  a  steady 
trot,  muttering, — 

"  Like  me  1  yes,  devilish  like  me :  I  know  that  well  enough. 
Didn't  I  always  play  cat's  paw  to  his  monkey  at  school  ?  but 
that  convict  don't  seem  such  a  bad  lot,  after  all." 

Meantime  Tom  and  Harry  struck  away  over  the  heath,  as 
the  darkness  closed  in,  and  the  storm  drove  down.  They  stum- 
bled on  over  the  charred  furze  roots,  and  splashed  through  the 
sloppy  peat  cuttings,  casting  anxious,  hasty  looks  over  their 
shoulders  as  they  fled,  straining  every  nerve  to  get  on,  and 
longing  for  night  and  the  storm. 

"  Hark,  wasn't  that  a  pistol-shot?"  said  Tom,  as  they  floun- 
dered on.  The  sound  came  from  the  road  they  had  left. 

"  Look !  here's  some  on  'em,  then,"  said   Harry ;  and  Tom 
was  aware  of  two  horsemen  coming  over  the  brow  of  the  hill 
on  their  left,  some  three  hundred  yards  to  the  rear.     At  the 
same  instant  his  horse  stumbled,  and  came  down  on  his  nose 
and  knees.     Tom  went  off  over  his  shoulder,  tumbling  against 
Harry,  and  sending  him  headlong  to  the  ground,  but  keeping 
hold  of  the  bridle ;  they  were  up  again  in  a  moment. 
"  Are  you  hurt  ?  " 
"No." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  and  Tom  was  in  the  saddle  again,  when 
the  pursuers  raised  a  shout.  They  had  caught  sight  of  them 


HUE  AND  CRT-  447 

now,  and  spurred  down  the  slope  towards  them.    Tom  was 
turning  his  horse's  head  straight  away,  but  Harry  shouted, — 

"  Keep  to  the  left,  Master  Tom,  to  the  left,  right  on." 

It  seemed  like  running  into  the  lion's  jaws,  but  he  yielded, 
and  they  pushed  on  down  the  slope  on  which  they  were.  An- 
other shout  of  triumph  rose  on  the  howling  wind  ;  Tom's  heart 
sank  within  him.  The  enemy  was  closing  on  them  every  mo- 
ment ;  another  hundred  yards,  and  they  must  meet  at  the 
bottom  of  the  slope.  What  could  Harry  be  dreaming  of? 
The  thought  had  scarcely  time  to  cross  bis  brain,  when  down 
went  the  two  yeomen,  horse  and  man,  floundering  in  a  bog 
above  their  horses'  girths.  At  the  same  moment  the  storm 
burst  on  them,  with  driving  mist  and  pelting  rain.  The  chase 
was  over.  They  could  not  have  seen  a  regiment  of  men  at 
fifty  yards'  distance. 

"  You  let  me  lead  the  horse,  Master  Tom,"  shouted  Harry 
Winburn  ;  "  I  knowed  where  they  was  going ;  'twill  take  they 
the  best  part  o'  the  night  to  get  out  o'  that,  I  knows." 

"All  right,  let's  get  back  to  the  road,  then,  as  soon  as  we 
can,"  said  Tom,  surrendering  his  horse's  head  to  Harry,  and 
turning  up  his  collar  to  meet  the  pitiless  deluge  which  was 
driving  on  their  flanks.  They  were  drenched  to  the  skin  in 
two  minutes ;  Tom  jumped  off,  and  plodded  along  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  his  horse  to  Harry.  They  did  not  speak ;  there 
was  very  little  to  be  said  under  the  circumstances,  and  a  great 
deal  to  be  thought  about. 

Harry  Winburn  probably  knew  the  heath  as  well  as  anymant 
living,  but  even  he  had  much  difficulty  in  finding  his  way  back 
to  the  road  through  that  storm.  However,  after  some  half-hour 
spent  in  beating  about,  they  reached  it,  and  turned  their  faces 
northwards  towards  Oxford.  By  this  time  night  had  come  on  ; 
but.the  fury  of  the  storm  had  passed  over  them,  and  the  moon 
began  to  show  every  now  and  then  through  the  driving  clouds. 
At  last  Tom  roused  himself  out  of  the  brown  study  in  which 
he  had  been  hitherto  plodding  along,  and  turned  down  his 
coat  collar,  and  shook  himself,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and 
across  at  his  companion,  who  was  still  leading  the  horse  along 
mechanically.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  his  face,  but  his  walk 
and  general  look  was  listless  and  dogged  ;  at  last  Tom  broke 
silence 

"You  promised  not  to  do  anything,  after  you  came  out, 
without  speaking  to  me."  Harry  made  no  reply ;  so  presently 
he  went  on, — 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  have  gone  in  for  such  business  as  that 
to-night  I  shouldn't  have  minded  so  much  if  it  had  only  been 


448  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

machine-breaking ;  but  robbing  the  cellar  and  staving  in  ale 
casks  and  maiming  cattle — " 

"  I'd  no  hand  in  that,"  interrupted  Harry. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  You  were  certainly  leaning  against 
the  gate  when  I  came  up,  and  taking  no  part  in  it ;  but  you 
were  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  riot." 

"  He  brought  it  on  hisself,"  said  Harry,  doggedly. 

"  Tester  is  a  bad  man,  I  know  that ;  and  the  people  have 
/nuch  to  complain  of:  but  nothing  can  justify  what  was  done 
to-night."  Harry  made  no  answer. 

*'  You're  known,  and  they'll  be  after  you  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done." 

"  'Tis  very  little  odds  what  happens  to  me." 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  that,  Harry.     Your  friends — 

"I  hain't  got  no  friends." 

"  Well,  Harry,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that  after 
what  has  happened  to-night.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  my 
friendship  has  done  you  much  good  yet ;  but  I've  done  what  I 
could,  and — " 

"  So  you  hev',  Master  Tom,  so  you  hev'." 

"  And  I'll  stick  by  you  through  thick  and  thin,  Harry.  But 
you  must  take  heart  and  stick  by  yourself,  or  we  shall 
never  pull  you  through."  Harry  groaned,  and  then,  turning, 
at  once  to  what  was  always  uppermost  in  his  mind,  said, — 

"  'Tis  no  good,  now  I've  been  in  jail.  Her  father  wur  allus 
agin  me.  And  now,  how  be  I  ever  to  hold  up  my  head  at 
whoam  ?  I  seen  her  once  arter  I  came  out." 

"  Well,  and  what  happened  ?  "  said  Tom,  after  waiting  a  mo- 
ment or  two. 

"  She  just  turned  red  and  pale,  and  was  all  flustered  like, 
and  made  as  though  she'd  have  held  out  her  hand ;  and  then 
tuk  and  hurried  off  like  a  frighted  hare,  as  though  she  heerd 
somebody  a  comin'.  Ah  !  'tis  no  good  ;  'tis  no  good  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  anything  very  hopeless  in  that,"  said  Tom. 

"  I've  knowed  her  since  she  wur  that  high,"  went  on  Harry, 
holding  out  his  hand  about  as  high  as  the  bottom  of  his  waist- 
coat, without  noticing  the  interruption,  "  when  her  and  I  went 
a-gleanin'  together.  'Tis  what  I've  thought  on,  and  lived  for, 
and  'tis  four  year  since  she  and  I  broke  a  sixpence  auver't.  And 
at  times  it  sim'd  as  tho'  'twould  all  cum  right,  when  my  poor 
mother  wur  livin', — tho'  her  never  tuk  to  it  kindly,  mother 
didn't.  But  'tis  all  gone  now !  and  I  be  that  mad  wi'  myself, 
and  mammered,  and  down,  I  be  ready  to  hang  myself,  Master 
Tom ;  and  if  they  just  teks  and  transpworts  me — " 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Harry !    You. must  keep  out  of  that.     We 


HUE  AND  CRY.  449 

§hall  think  of  some  way  to  get  you  out  of  that  before  morning. 
And  you  must  get  clear  away,  and  go  to  work  on  the  railways 
or  somewhere.  There's  nothing  to  be  down-hearted  about  so 
far  as  Patty  is  concerned." 

"  Ah  1  'tis  they  as  wears  it  as  knows  where  the  shoe  pinches. 
You'd  say  different  if  'twas  you,  Master  Tom." 

"  Should  I  ?  "  said  Tom ;  and,  after  pausing  a  moment  or  two, 
he  went  on.  "What  I'm  going  to  say  is  in  confidence.  I've 
never  told  it  to  any  man  yet,  and  only  one  has  found  it  out. 
Now,  Harry,  I'm  much  worse  off  than  you  at  this  minute. 
Don't  I  know  where  the  shoe  pinches?  Why,  I  haven't  seen 
— I've  scarcely  heard  of — of — well,  of  my  sweetheart — there, 
you'll  understand  that — for  this  year  and  more.  I  don't  know 
when  I  may  see  her  again.  I  don't  know  that  she  hasn't  clean 
forgotten  me.  I  don't  know  that  she  ever  cared  a  straw  for 
me.  Now,  you  know  quite  well  that  you're  better  off  than 
that." 

"  I  bean't  so  sure  o'  that.  Master  Tom.  But  I  be  terrible 
vexed  to  hear  about  you." 

**  Never  mind  about  me.  You  say  you're  not  sure,  Harry. 
Come,  now,  you  said,  not  two  minutes  ago,  that  you  two  had 
broken  a  sixpence  over  it.  What  does  that  mean,  now  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  but  'tis  four  years  gone.  Her's  bin  a  leadin'  o'  me  up 
and  down,  and  a  dancin'  o'  me  round  and  round,  purty  nigh 
ever  since,  let  alone  the  time  as  she  wur  at  Oxford,  when — " 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  of  that,  Harry.  Come,  will  yesterday 
do  for  you  ?  If  you  thought  she  was  ail  right  yesterday,  would 
that  satisfy  you  ?  " 

"  Ees ;  and  surnmat  to  spare." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,  I  see.  Well,  why  do  you  think  I 
came  after  you  to-night  ?  How  did  I  know  what  was  going 
on?" 

"  That's  just  what  I've  been  a  axin'  o'  myself  as  we  cum 
along." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you.  I  came  because  I  got  a  note 
from  her  yesterday  at  Oxford."  Tom  paused,  for  he  heard  a 
muttered  growl  from  the  other  side  of  the  horse's  head,  and 
could  see,  even  in  the  fitful  moonlight,  the  angry  toss  of  the 
head  with  which  his  news  was  received.  "I  didn't  expect 
this,  Harry,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  after  what  I  told  you  just 
now  about  myself.  It  was  a  hard  matter  to  tell  it  at  all ;  but, 
after  telling  you,  I  didn't  think  you'd  suspect  me  any  more. 
However,  perhaps  Fre  deserved  it.  So,  to  go  on  with  what  I 
was  saying,  two  'years  ago,  when  I  came  to  my  senses  about 
fter,  and  before  I  cared  for  any  one  else,  I  told  her  to  write 


450  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

if  ever  I  could  do  her  a  service.  Anything  that  a  man  could 
do  for  his  sister  I  was  bound  to  do  for  her,  and  I  told  her  so. 
She  never  answered  till  yesterday,  when  I  got  this  note,"  and 
he  dived  into  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  his  shooting-coat.  "  If 
it  isn't  soaked  to  pulp,  it's  in  my  pocket  now.  Yes,  here 
it  is,"  and  he  produced  a  dirty  piece  of  paper,  and  handed  it 
across  to  his  companion.  "  When  there's  light  enough  to  read 
it,  you'll  see  plain  enough  what  she  means,  though  your  name 
is  not  mentioned." 

Having  finished  his  statement,  Tom  retired  into  himself,  and 
walked  along  watching  the  hurrying  clouds.  After  they  had 
gone  some  hundred  yards,  Harry  cleared  his  throat  once  or 
twice,  and  at  last  brought  out,-*- 

"  Master  Tom." 

«  Well." 

"  You  bean't  offended  wi'  me,  sir,  I  hopes? 

"  No,  why  should  I  be  offended?" 

"  'Cause  I  knows  I  be  so  all-fired  jealous,  I  can't  abear  to 
hear  o'  her  talkin',  let  alone  writin'  to — " 

"  Out  with  it.     To  me,  you  were  going  to  say." 

"  Nay,  'tis  mwore  nor  that." 

"  All  right,  Harry,  if  you  only  lump  me  with  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, I  don't  care.  But  you  needn't  be  jealous  of  me,  and  you 
mustn't  be  jealous  of  me,  or  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  help  you  as  I 
want  to  do.  I'll  give  you  hand  and  word  on  it,  as  man  to  man, 
there's  no  thought  in  my  heart  towards  her  that  you  mightn't 
see  this  minute.  Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Ees,  and  you'll  forgie — " 

"  There's  nothing  to  forgive,  Harry.  But  now  you'll  allow  your 
case  is  not  such  a  bad  one.  She  must  keep  a  good  look-out 
after  you  to  know  what  you  were  likely  to  be  about  to-day. 
And  if  she  didn't  care  for  you  she  wouldn't  have  written  to  me. 
That's  good  sense,  I  think." 

Harry  assented,  and  then  Tom  went  into  a  consideration  of 
•what  was  to  be  done,  and,  as  usual,  fair  castles  began  to  rise  in 
the  air.  Harry  was  to  start  down  the  line  at  once,  and  take 
work  on  the  railway.  In  a  few  weeks  he  would  be  captain  of  a 
gang,  and  then  what  was  to  hinder  his  becoming  a  contractor, 
and  making  his  fortune,  and  buying  a  farm  of  his  own  at  En- 
glebourn  ?  To  all  which  Harry  listened  with  open  ears  till 
they  got  off  the  heath,  and  came  upon  a  small  hamlet  of  some 
half-dozen  cottages  scattered  along  the  road. 

"  There's  a  public  here,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom,  returning  to 
the  damp  realities  of  life.  Harry  indicated  the  humble  place 
of  entertainment  for  man  and  horse. 


THE  LIEUTENANTS  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.  451 

"  That's  all  right.  I  hope  we  shall  find  my  friend  here ; " 
and  they  went  towards  the  light  which  was  shining  temptingly 
through  the  lattice  window  of  the  road-side  inn. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  LIEUTENANT'S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS. 

"  STOP  !  It  looks  so  bright  that  there  must  be  something 
going  on.  Surely,  they  can  never  have  come  on  here  already  ?  " 

Tom  laid  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  and  they  halted  on  the  road 
opposite  the  public-house,  which  lay  a  little  back,  with  au  open 
space  of  ground  before  it.  The  sign-post,  and  a  long  water- 
trough  for  the  horses  of  guests  to  drink  at,  were  pushed  forward 
to  the  side  of  the  road  to  intimate  the  whereabouts  of  the  house, 
and  the  hack  which  Harry  led  was  already  drinking  eagerly. 

"  Stay  here  for  a  minute,  and  I'll  go  to  the  window,  and  see 
what's  up  inside.  It's  very  unlucky,  but  it  will  never  do  for 
us  to  go  in  if  there  are  any  people  there." 

Tom  stole  softly  up  to  the  window  out  of  which  the  light 
came.  A  little  scrap  of  a  curtaiu  was  drawn  across  a  portion 
of  it,  but  he  could  see  easily  into  the  room  on  either  side  of  the 
cnrtain.  The  first  glance  comforted  him,  for  he  saw  at  once 
that  there  was  only  one  person  in  the  kitchen ;  but  who  and 
what  he  might  be  was  a  puzzle.  The  only  thing  which  was 
clear  at  a  first  glance  was,  that  he  was  making  himself  at  home. 

The  room  was  a  moderate-sized  kitchen,  with  a  sanded  floor, 
and  a  large  fireplace  ;  a  high  wooden  screen,  with  a  narrow  seat 
in  front  of  it,  ran  along  the  side  on  which  the  door  from  the 
entrance-passage  opened.  In  the  middle  there  was  a  long, 
rough,  walnut  table,  on  which  stood  a  large  loaf,  some  cold 
bacon  and  cheese,  and  a  yellow  jug ;  a  few  heavy  rush-bottomed 
chairs  and  a  settle  composed  the  rest  of  the  furniture.  On  the 
walls  were  a  few  samplers,  a  warming  pan,  and  shelves  with 
some  common  delf  plates,  and  cups  and  saucers.  But  though 
the  furniture  was  meagre  enough,  the  kitchen  had  a  look  of 
wondrous  comfort  for  a  drenched  mortal  outside.  Tom  felt 
this  keenly,  and,  after  a  glance  round,  fixed  his  attention  on 
the  happy  occupant,  with  the  view  of  ascertaining  whether  he 
would  be  a  safe  person  to  intrude  on  under  the  circumstances. 
He  was  seated  on  a  low,  three-cornered  oak  seat,  with  his  back 
to  the  window,  steadying  a  furze  faggot  on  the  fire  with  the 
poker.  The  faggot  blazed  and  crackled,  and  roared  up  the 
chimney,  sending  out  the  bright,  flickering  light  which  had 
attracted  them,  and  forming  a  glorious  top  to  the  glowing  clear 


452  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

fire  of  wood  embers  beneath,  into  which  was  inserted  a  long, 
funnel-shaped  tin,  out  of  which  the  figure  helped  himself  to 
some  warm  compound,  when  he  had  settled  the  faggot  to  his 
satisfaction.  He  was  enveloped  as  to  his  shoulders  in  a  heavy, 
dirty-white  coat,  with  huge  cape  and  high  collar,  which  hid 
the  back  of  his  head,  such  as  was  then  in  use  by  country 
carriers  ;  but  the  garment  was  much  too  short  for  him,  and  his 
bare  arms  came  out  a  foot  beyond  the  end  of  the  sleeves.  The 
rest  of  his  costume  was  even  more  eccentric,  being  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  coarse  flannel  petticoat;  and  his  bare  feet 
rested  on  a  mat  in  front  of  the  fire. 

Tom  felt  a  sudden  doubt  as  to  his  sanity,  which  doubt  was 
apparently  shared  of  the  widow  woman,  who  kept  the  house, 
and  her  maid-of-all-work,  one  or  other  of  whom  might  be  seen 
constantly  keeping  an  eye  on  their  guest  from  behind  the  end 
of  the  wooden  screen.  However,  it  was  no  time  to  be  over 
particular;  they  must  rest  before  going  further,  and,  after  all, 
it  was  only  one  man.  So  Tom  thought,  and  was  just  on  the 
point  of  calling  Harry  to  come  on,  when  the  figure  turned 
round  towards  the  window,  and  the  face  of  the  lieutenant  dis- 
closed itself  between  the  high  peaked  gills  of  the  carrier's  coat. 
Tom  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  called  out, — 

"  It's  all  right,  come  along." 

"I'll  just  look  to  the  hosses,  Master  Tom." 

"  Very  well,  and  then  come  into  the  kitchen  ;  "  saying  which, 
he  hurried  into  the  house,  and  after  tumbling  against  the  maid- 
of-all-work  in  the  passage,  emerged  from  behind  the  screen. 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  last,  old  fellow,"  he  said  slapping 
East  on  the  shoulder. 

"Oh, it's  you,  is  it?  I  thought  you  were  in  the  lock-up  by 
this  time." 

East's  costume,  as  he  sat  looking  up,  with  a  hand  on  each 
knee,  was  even  more  ridiculous  on  a  close  inspection,  and  Tom 
loared  with  laughter  again. 

"I  don't  see  the  joke,"  said  East,  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  You  would,  though,  if  you  could  see  yourself.  You  won- 
derful old  Guy,  where  did  you  pick  up  that  toggery? " 

"  The  late  lamented  husband  of  the  Widow  Higgs,  our  land- 
lady, was  the  owner  of  the  coat.  He  also  bequeathed  to  her 
several  pairs  of  breeches,  which  I  have  vainly  endeavored  to  get 
into.  The  late  lamented  Higgs  was  an  abominably  small  man. 
He  must  have  been  very  much  her  worse  half.  So,  in  default 
of  other  clothing,  the  widow  has  kindly  obliged  me  by  the  loan 
of  one  of  her  own  garments." 

*J  Where  are  your  own  clothes?" 


THE  LIEUTENANTS  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.  453 

"  There,"  said  East,  pointing  to  a  clothes'  horse,  which  Tom 
had  not  hitherto  remarked,  which  stood,  well  into  the  chimney 
corner ;  "  and  they  are  dry,  too,"  he  went  on,  feeling  them ; 
"  at  least  the  flannel  shirt  and  trousers  are,  so  I'll  get  into  them 
again." 

"  I  say,  ma'am,"  he  called  out,  addressing  the  screen,  "  I'm 
going  to  change  my  things.  So  you  had  better  not  look  in 
just  now.  In  fact,  we  can  call  now  if  we  want  anything." 

At  this  strong  hint  the  Widow  Higgs  was  heard  bustling 
away  behind  the  screen,  and  after  her  departure  East  got  into 
some  of  his  own  clothes  again,  offering  the  cast-off  garments 
of  the  Higgs  family  to  Tom,  who,  however  declined,  contenting 
himself  with  taking  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  hanging 
them  up  on  the  horse.  He  had  been  blown  comparatively  dry 
in  the  last  half-hour  of  his  walk. 

While  East  was  making  his  toilet,  Tom  turned  to  the  table, 
and  made  an  assault  on  the  bread  and  bacon,  and  then  poured 
himself  out  a  glass  of  beer  and  began  to  drink  it,  but  was  pulled 
up  half  way,  and  put  it  down  with  a  face  all  drawn  up  into 
puckers  by  its  sharpness. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  appreciate  the  widow's  tap,"  said 
East,  watching  him,  with  a  grin.  "Regular  whistlebelly  ven- 
geance, and  no  mistake !  Here,  I  don't  mind  giving  you  some 
of  my  compound,  though  you  don't  deserve  it." 

So  Tom  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  smacked  his  lips  over 
the  long-necked  glass,  which  East  handed  to  him. 

"  Ah  !  that's  not  bad  tipple  after  such  a  ducking  as  we've 
had.  Dog's  nose,  isn't  it  ?  " 

East  nodded. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  I  will  say  you're  the  best  hand  I  know  at 
making  the  most  of  your  opportunities.  I  don't  know  any  one 
else  who  could  have  made  such  a  good  brew  out  of  that  stuff  and 
a  drop  of  gin." 

East  was  not  to  be  mollified  by  any  such  compliment. 

"Have  you  got  any  more  such  jobs  as  to-day's  on  hand ?  i 
should  think  they  must  interfere  with  reading." 

"  No.     But  I  call  to-day's  a  real  good  job." 

"  Do  you  ?  I  don't  agree.  Of  course  it's  a  matter  of  taste. 
I  have  the  honor  of  holding  her  majesty's  commission ;  so  I 
may  be  prejudiced  perhaps." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  whose  commission  you  hold? 
You  wouldn't  hold  any  commission,  I  know,  which  would  bind 
you  to  be  a  tyrant  and  oppress  the  weak  and  the  poor." 

"  Humbug  about  your  oppressing !  Who's  the  tyrant,  I 
should  like  to  know,  the  fanner,  or  the  mob  that  destroys  his 
property  ?  I  don't  call  Swing's  mob  the  weak  and  the  poor." 


454  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  That's  all  very  well ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  how  you'd 
feel  if  you  had  no  work  and  a  starving  family.  You  don't 
know  what  the  people  have  to  suffer.  The  only  wonder  is  that 
all  the  country  isn't  in  a  blaze ;  and  it  will  be,  if  things  last  as 
they  are  much  longer,  It  must  be  a  bad  time  which  makes 
such  men  as  Harry  Winburn  into  rioters." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Harry  Winburn.  But  I  know 
there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  the  yeomanry  side  of  the 
question." 

"  Well,  now,  East,  just  consider  this — " 

"  No,  I'm  not  in  the  humor  for  considering.  I  don't  want  to 
argue  with  you." 

"  Yes,  that's  always  the  way.  You  won't  hear  what  a  fel- 
low's got  to  say,  and  then  set  him  down  for  a  mischievous  fool, 
because  he  won't  give  up  beliefs  founded  on  the  evidence  of  his 
own  eyes  and  ears  and  reason." 

"I  don't  quarrel  with  any  of  your  beliefs.  You've  got  'em 
— I  haven't — that's  just  the  difference  between  us.  You've 
got  some  sort  of  faith  to  fall  back  upon,  in  equality  and 
brotherhood  and  a  lot  of  cursed  nonsense  of  that  kind.  So,  I 
dare  say,  you  could  drop  down  into  a  navigator,  or  a  shoe- 
black, or  something  in  that  way  to-morrow,  and  think  it 
pleasant.  You  might  rather  enjoy  a  trip  across  the  water  at 
the  expense  of  your  country,  like  your  friend  the  convict 
here." 

"  Don't  talk  such  rot,  man.  In  the  first  place,  he  isn't  a 
convict — you  know  that,  well  enough." 

"He  is  just  out  of  prison,  at  any  rate.  However,  this  sort 
of  thing  isn't  my  line  of  country  at  all.  So  the  next  time  you 
want  to  do  a  bit  of  jail-delivery  on  your  own  hook,  don't  ask 
me  to  help  you." 

"  Well,  if  I  had  known  all  that  was  going  to  happen,  I 
wouldn't  have  asked  you  to  come,  old  fellow.  Come,  give  us 
another  glass  of  your  dog's  nose,  and  no  more  of  your  sermon, 
which  isn't  edifying." 

The  lieutenant  filled  the  long-necked  glass  which  Tom  held 
out  with  the  creaming  mixture,  which  he  was  nursing  in  the 
funnel-shaped  tin.  But  he  was  not  prepared  to  waive  his  right 
to  lecture,  and  so  continued,  while  Tom  sipped  his  liquor  with 
much  relish,  and  looked  comically  across  at  his  old  school- 
fellow. 

"  Some  fellows  have  a  call  to  set  the  world  right — I  haven't. 
My  gracious  sovereign  pays  me  seven  and  sixpence  a  day ;  for 
which  sum  I  undertake  to  be  shot  at  on  certain  occasions  and 
by  proper  persons,  and  I  hope  when  the  time  comes  I  shall 


THE  LIEUTENANTS  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.  455 

take  it  as  well  as  another.  But  that  doesn't  include  turning 
out  to  be  potted  at  like  a  woodcock  on  your  confounded  Berk- 
shire wilds  by  a  turnip-headed  yeoman.  It  isn't  to  be  done  at 
the  figure." 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say." 

"  That  one  of  those  blessed  yeomanry  has  been  shooting  *\ 
you  ?  " 

11  Just  so." 

"No,  you  don't  really  mean  it?  Wh-e-e-w !  Then  that 
shot  we  heard  was  fired  at  you.  'Pon  my  honor,  I'm  very 
sorry." 

"  Much  good  your  sorrow  would  have  done  me  if  your  pre- 
cious countryman  had  held  straight." 

"  Well,  what  can  I  say  more,  East  ?  If  there's  anything  I 
can  do  to  show  you  that  I  really  am  very  sorry,  and  ashamed 
at  having  brought  you  into  such  a  scrape,  only  tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"  I  don't  suppose  your  word  woulft  go  for  much  at  the  Horse 
Guards,  or  I'd  ask  you  to  give  me  a  character  for  coolness  un- 
der fire." 

"  Come,  I  see  you're  joking  now,  old  fellow.  Do  tell  us  how 
it  happened." 

"  Well,  when  you  turned  off  across  the  common  I  pulled  up 
for  half  a  minute,  and  then  held  on  at  a  steady,  slow  trot.  If 
I  had  pushed  on  ahead,  my  friends  behind  would  have  been 
just  as  likely  to  turn  after  you  as  after  me.  Presently  I  heard 
Number  One  coming  tearing  along  behind  ;  and  as  soon  as  he 
got  from  between  the  banks,  he  saw  me,  and  came  straight 
after  me  down  the  road.  You  were  well  aw.iy  to  the  left,  so 
now  I  just  clapped  on  a  bit,  to  lead  him  further  away  from  the 
right  scent,  and  on  he  came  whooping  and  hallooing  to  me  to 
pull  up.  I  didn't  see  why  I  hadn't  just  as  good  a  right  to  ride 
along  the  road  at  my  own  pace  as  he ;  so  the  more  he  shouted 
the  more  I  didn't  stop.  But  the  beggar  had  the  legs  of  me. 
He  was  mounted  on  something  deuced  like  a  thoroughbred, 
and  gained  on  me  hand  over  hand.  At  last  when  I  judged  he 
must  be  about  twenty  yards  behind,  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
have  a  look  at  him — so  I  just  turned  for  a  moment,  and,  by 
Jove,  there  was  my  lord,  lugging  a  pistol  out  of  his  right  hol- 
ster. He  shouted  again  to  me  to  stop.  I  turned,  ducked  my 
head,  and  the  next  moment  he  pulled  the  trigger  and  missed 
me. 

"  And  what  happened  then  ? "_  said  Tom,  drawing  a  long 
breath. 


456  fOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Why,  I  flatter  myself  I  showed  considerable  generalship. 
If  I  had  given  him  time  to  get  at  his  other  pistol,  or  his  toast« 
ing-fork,  it  was  all  up.  I  dived  into  my  pocket,  where  by  good 
luck  there  was  some  loose  powder,  and  copper  caps,  and  a 
snuff-box  ;  upset  the  snuff,  grabbed  a  handful  of  the  mixture, 
and  pulled  hard  at  my  horse.  Next  moment  he  was  by  my 
side,  lifting  his  pistol  to  knock  me  over.  So  I  gave  him  the 
mixture  right  in  his  face,  and  let  him  go  by.  Up  went  both 
his  hands,  and  away  went  he  and  his  horse,  somewhere  over  the 
common  out  of  sight.  I  just  turned  round,  and  walked  quiet- 
ly back.  I  didn't  see  the  fun  of  accepting  any  more  attacks 
in  rear.  Then  up  rides  Number  Two,  a  broad-faced  young 
farmer  on  a  big  gray  horse,  blowing  like  a  grampus.  He  pulled 
up  short  when  we  met,  and  stared,  and  I  walked  past  him. 
You  never  saw  a  fellow  look  more  puzzled,  I  had  regularly 
stale-mated  him.  However,  he  took  heart,  and  shouted,  had  I 
met  the  captain  ?  I  said,  a  gentleman  had  ridden  by  on  a 
bright  bay.  *  That  was  he:  which  way  had  he  gone?'  So  I 
pointed  generally  over  the  common,  and  Number  Two  depart- 
ed ;  and  then  down  came  the  storm,  and  I  turned  again  and 
came  on  here." 

"  The  captain  !  It  must  have  been  Wurley,  then,  who  fired 
at  you." 

"I  don't  know  who  it  was.  I  only  hope  he  won't  be 
blinded." 

"  It's  a  strange  business  altogether,"  said  Tom,  looking  into 
the  fire,  "  I  scarcely  know  what  to  think  of  it.  We  should 
never  have  pulled  through  but  for  you,  that's  certain." 

"  I  know  what  to  think  of  it  well  enough,"  said  East.  "  But 
now  let's  hear  what  happened  to  you.  They  didn't  catch  you, 
of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  was  touch  and  go.  I  thought  it  was  all  up  at 
one  time,  for  Harry  would  turn  right  across  their  line.  But  he 
knew  what  he  was  about ;  there  was  a  bog  between  us,  and 
they  came  on  right  into  it,  and  we  left  them  floundering." 

"  The  convict  seems  to  have  his  head  about  him,  then. 
Where  is  he,  by  the  way?  I'm  curious  to  have  a  look  at 
him." 

"  Looking  after  the  horses.  I'll  call  him  in.  He  ought  to 
have  something  to  drink." 

Tom  went  to  the  door,  and  called  Harry,  who  came  out  from 
the  rough  shed  which  served  as  a  stable  in  his  shirt,  with  a 
whisp  of  hay  in  his  hand.  He  had  stripped  off  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and  braces,  and  had  been  warming  himself  by  giving  the 
horses  a  good  dressing. 


THE  LIEUTENANT S  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.  457 

"Why,  Harry,  you  haven't  had  anything,"  said  Tom  ;  "come 
across,  and  have  a  glass  of  something  hot." 

Harry  followed  into  the  kitchen,  and  stood  by  the  end  of 
the  screen,  looking  rather  uncomfortable,  while  Tom  poured 
him  out  a  glass  of  the  hot  mixture,  and  the  lieutenant  looked 
him  over  with  keen  eyes. 

"  There,  take  that  off.     How  are  the  horses  ?  " 

"Pretty  fresh,  Master  Tom.  But  they'd  be  the  better  of  a 
bran  mash  or  somethin'  cumfable.  I've  spoken  to  the  missus 
about  it,  and  'tis  ready  to  put  on  the  fire." 

"  That's  right,  then ;  let  them  have  it  as  quick  as  you  can." 

"  Then  I  rned  fetch  it  and  warm  it  up  here,  sir  ? "  said 
Barry. 

"  To  be  sure ;  the  sooner  the  better." 

Harry  took  off  his  glass,  making  a  shy  sort  of  duck  with  his 
head,  accompanied  by  "Your  health,  sir,"  to  each  of  his  enter- 
tainers, and  then  disappeared  into  the  back  kitchen,  returned 
with  the  mash,  which  he  put  on  the  fire,  and  went  off  to  the 
stable  again. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?"  said  Tom. 

"  I  like  to  see  a  fellow  let  his  braces  down  when  he  goes  to 
work,"  said  East. 

"It's  not  every  fellow  who  would  be  sti-apping  away  at 
those  horses,  instead  of  making  himself  at  home  in  the  back 
kitchen." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  East. 

"  Don't  you  like  his  looks  now  ?  " 

"  He's  not  a  bad  sort,  your  convict." 

"  I  say,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  him  names." 

"  Very  good ;  your  unfortunate  friend,  then.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  That's  just  what  I've  been  puzzling  about  all  the  way  here ; 
what  do  you  think  ? "  and  then  they  drew  to  the  fire  again, 
and  began  to  talk  over  Harry's  prospects.  In  some  ten  min- 
utes he  returned  to  the  kitchen  for  the  mash,  and  this  time 
drew  a  complimentary  remark  from  the  lieutenant. 

Harry  was  passionately  fond  of  animals,  and  especially  of 
herses,  and  they  found  it  out  quickly  enough,  as  they  always 
do.  The  two  hacks  were  by  this  time  almost  fresh  again,  with 
dry  coats  and  feet  well  washed  and  cleansed  ;  and,  while  work- 
ing at  them,  Harry  had  been  thinking  over  all  he  had  heard 
that  evening,  and  found  himself  getting  more  hopeful  every 
minute.  No  one  who  had  seen  his  face  an  hour  before  on  the 
heath  would  have  believed  it  was  the  same  man  who  was  now 
patting  and  fondling  the  two  hacks  as  they  slowly  ate  up  the 


458  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

mash  he  had  prepared  for  them.  When  they  had  finished  he 
leant  back  against  the  manger,  rubbing  the  ears  of  Tom's  hack 
— the  one  which  had  carried  double  so  well  in  their  first  flight 
gently  with  his  two  hands,  while  the  delighted  beast  bent  down 
its  head,  and  pressed  it  against  him,  and  stretched  its  neck,  ex- 
pressing in  all  manner  of  silent  ways  its  equine  astonishment 
and  satisfaction.  By  the  light  of  the  single  dip  Harry's  faco 
grew  shorter  and  shorter,  until  the  old  merry  look  began  t« 
creep  back  into  it. 

As  we  have  already  taken  the  liberty  of  putting  the  thoughts 
of  his  betters  into  words,  we  must  now  do  so  for  him;  and,  if 
he  had  expressed  his  thoughts  as  he  rubbed  the  hack's  ears  in 
the  stable,  his  speech  would  have  been  much  as  follows : — 

"  How  cums  it  as  I  be  all  changed  like,  as  tho'  sum  'un  had 
tuk  and  rubbed  all  the  down-heartedness  out  o'  me  ?  Here  I 
be,  two  days  out  o'  jail,  wi'  nothin'  in  the  world  but  the 
things  I  stands  in — for  in  course  I  med  just  give  up  the  bits  o' 
things  as  is  left  at  Daddy  Collins' — and  they  all  draggled  wi' 
the  wet — and  I  med  be  tuk  in  the  mornin'  and  sent  across  the 
water — and  yet  I  feels  sumhow  as  peert  as  a  yukkel.  So  fur  as 
I  can  see,  'tis  jest  nothin'  but  talkin'  wi'  our  Master  Tom.  What 
a  fine  thing  'tis  to  be  schollard,  and  yet  seemin'ly  'tis  nothin'  but 
talk  arter  all's  said  and  done.  But  'tis  allus  the  same ;  whenever 
I  gets  talkin'  wi'  he,  it  all  cums  out  as  smooth  as  crame.  Fust 
time  as  ever  I  seen  him  since  we  wur  bwys  he  talked  just  as  a  do 
now  ;  and  then  my  poor  mother  died.  Then  he  cum  in  arter 
the  funeral,  and  talked  me  up  again,  till  I  thought  as  I  wur  to 
hev  our  cottage  and  all  the  land  as  I  could  do  good  by ;  but 
our  cottage  wur  tuk  away,  and  my  'lotment  besides.  Then  cum 
last  summer,  and  'twur  jest  the  same  agne  arter  his  talk,  but  1 
got  dree  months  auver  that  job.  And  now  here  I  be  wi'  nn 
agen,  a  runnin'  from  the  constable,  and  like  to  be  tuk  up  and 
transpworted,  and  'tis  just  the  same — and  I  s'pose  'twill  be 
just  the  same  if  ever  I  gets  back,  and  sees  'un,  and  talks  wi'  'mi, 
if  I  be  given  to  be  hung.  'Tis  a  wonnerful  thing  to  be  a 
schollard,  to  be  able  to  make  things  look  all  straight  when  they 
be  ever  so  akkered  and  unked." 

And  then  Harry  left  off  rubbing  the  horse's  ears ;  and,  pull- 
ing the  damp  piece  of  paper  which  Tom  had  given  him  out  of 
his  breeches  pocket,  proceeded  to  flatten  it  out  tenderly  on  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  and  read  it  by  the  light  of  the  dip,  when  the 
landlady  came  to  inform  him  that  the  gentlefolk  wanted  him 
in  the  kitchen.  So  he  folded  his  treasure  up  again,  and  went 
off  to  the  kitchen.  He  found  Tom  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  while  the  lieutenant  was  sitting  at  the  table  writing 


THE  LIEUTENANTS  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.    459 

on  a  scrap  of  paper,  which  the  landlady  had  produced  after 
ranch  hunting  over  of  drawers.  Tom  began,  with  some  little 
hesitation : — 

"  O  Harry,  I've  been  talking  your  matters  over  with  my 
friend  here,  and  I've  changed  my  mind.  It  won't  do  after  all 
for  you  to  stay  about  at  railway  work,  or  anything  of  that 
sort.  You  see  you  wouldn't  be  safe.  They'd  be  sure  to  trace 
you,  and  you'd  get  into  trouble  about  this  day's  work.  And 
then,  after  all,  it's  a  very  poor  opening  for  a  young  fellow  like 
you.  Now,  why  shouldn't  you  enlist  into  Mr.  Easvs  regiment  ? 
You'll  be  in  his  company,  and  it's  a  splendid  profession.  What 
do  you  say  now  ?  " 

East  looked  up  at  poor  Harry,  who  was  quite  taken  aback 
at  this  change  in  his  prospects,  and  could  only  mutter  he  had 
never  turned  his  mind  to  "  sodgerin." 

"It's  just  the  thing  for  you,"  Tom  went  on.  "You  can 
write  and  keep  accounts,  and  you'll  get  on  famously.  Ask 
Mr.  East  if  you  won't.  And  don't  you  fear  about  mat- 
ters at  home.  You'll  see  that'll  all  come  right.  I'll 
pledge  you  my  word  it  will,  and  I'll  take  care  that  you 
shall  hear  everything  that  goes  on  there,  and  depend 
upon  it  it's  your  best  chance.  You'll  be  back  at  Engle- 
bourn  as  a  sergeant  in  no  time,  and  be  able  to  snap  your  fingers 
at  them  all.  You'll  come  with  us  to  Steventon  station,  and 
take  the  night  train  to  London,  and  then  in  the  morning  go  to 
Whitehall,  and  find  Mr.  East's  sergeant.  He'll  give  you  a  note 
to  him,  and  they'll  send  you  on  to  Chatham,  where  the  regi- 
ment is.  You  think  it's  the  best  thing  for  him,  don't  you?" 
said  Tom,  turning  to  East. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  you'll  do  very  well  if  you  only  keep  steady. 
Here's  a  note  to  the  sergeant,  and  I  shall  be  back  at  Chatham 
in  a  day  or  two  myself." 

Harry  took  the  note  mechanically ;  he  was  quite  unable  yet 
to  make  any  resistance. 

"  And  now  get  something  to  eat  as  quickly  as  you  can,  for 
we  ought  to  be  off.  The  horses  are  all  right,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Master  Tom,"  said  Harry,  with  an  appealing  look. 

"  Where  are  your  coat  and  waistcoat,  Harry  ?  " 

"  They  be  in  the  stable,  sir." 

"  In  the  stable !     Why,  they're  all  wet  then  still? " 

"  Oh,  'tis  no  odds  about  that,  Master  Tom." 

"  No  odds !  Get  them  in  directly,  and  put  them  to  dry 
here." 

So  Harry  Winburn  went  off  to  the  stable  to  fetch  his 
clothes. 


400  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow,"  said  East,  getting  up  and  coming  to 
the  fire ;  "  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  but  he  doesn't  fancy 
enlisting." 

"  Poor  fellow !  he  has  to  leave  his  sweetheart.  It's  a  sad 
business,  but  it's  the  best  thing  for  him,  and  you'll  Bee  he'll 

go." 

Tom  was  right.  Poor  Harry  came  in  and  dried  his  clothes, 
and  got  his  supper,  and  while  he  was  eating  it,  and  all  along 
the  road  afterwards,  till  they  reached  the  station  at  about 
eleven  o'clock,  pleaded  in  his  plain  way  with  Tom  against  leav- 
ing his  own  country  side.  And  East  listened  silently,  and 
liked  him  better  and  better- 
Tom  argued  with  him  gently,  and  turned  the  matter  round 
on  all  sides,  putting  the  most  hopeful  face  upon  it ;  and,  in 
the  end,  talked  first  himself,  and  then  Harry  into  the  belief  that 
it  was  the  very  best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  him,  and 
more  likely  than  any  other  course  of  action  to  bring  everything 
right  between  him  and  all  folk  at  Englebourn. 

So  Harry  got  into  the  train  at  Steventon  in  a  pretty  good 
heart,  with  his  fare  paid,  and  half  a  sovereign  in  his  pocket, 
more  and  more  impressed  in  his  mind  with  what  a  wonderful 
thing  it  was  to  be  a  "  schollard." 

The  two  friends  rode  back  to  Oxford  at  a  good  pace.  They 
had  both  of  them  quite  enough  to  think  about,  and  were  not 
in  the  humor  for  talk,  had  place  nnd  time  served,  so  that 
scarce  a  word  passed  between  them,  till  they  had  left  their 
horses  at  the  livery  stables,  and  were  walking  through  the 
silent  streets  a  few  minutes  before  midnight.  Then  East  broke 
silence. 

"  I  can't  make  out  how  you  do  it.  I'd  give  half  a  year's  pay 
to  get  the  way  of  it." 

"The  way  of  what ?     What  are  you  talking  about  ? " 
"  Why,  your  way  of  shutting  your  eyes,  and  going  in  blind." 
"  Well,  that's  a  queer  wish  for  a  fighting  man,"  said  Tom, 
/aughing.     "  We  always  thought  a  rusher  no  good  at  school, 
and  that  the  thing  to  learn  was  to  go  in  with  your  own  eyes 
open,  and  shut  up  other  people's." 

"  Ah,  but  we  hadn't  cut  our  eye-teeth  then.     I  look  at  these 
things  from  a  professional  point  of  view.  My  business  is  to  get 
fellows  to  shut  their  eyes  tight,  and  I  begin  to  think,  you  can't 
do  it  as  it  should  be  done,  without  shutting  your  own  first." 
"  I  don't  take." 

"  Why,  look  at  the  way  you  talked  your  convict — I  beg  your 
pardon — your  unfortunate  friend — into  enlisting  to-night.  You 
lalked  as  if  you  believed  every  word  you  were  saying  to  him." 


THE  LIEUTENANTS  SENTIMENTS  AND  PROBLEMS.  461 

«  So  I  did." 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  have  you  for  a  recruiting  sergeant,  if 
you  could  only  drop  that  radical  bosh.  If  I  had  had  to  do  it, 
instead  of  enlisting,  he  would  have  gone  straight  off  and  hung 
himself  in  the  stable." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  try  your  hand  at  it,  then." 

"  Look  again  at  me.  Do  you  think  any  one  but  such  a — 
well,  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  uncivil — a  headlong  dog 
like  you  could  have  got  me  into  such  a  business  as  to-day's? 
Now  I  want  to  be  able  to  get  other  fellows  to  make  just  such 
fools  of  themselves  as  I've  made  of  myself  to-day.  How  do 
you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  unless  it  is  that  I  can't  help  always  looking 
at  the  best  side  of  things  myself,  and  so—" 

"  Most  things  haven't  got  a  best  side." 

"  Well  a  better,  then." 

"  Nor  a  better." 

"  If  they  haven't  got  a  better,  of  course,  it  don't  matter." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  does — much.  Still,  I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  too,  when  I  want — with  the  view 
of  getting  others  to  do  ditto,  of  course." 

"1  wish  I  could  help  you,  old  fellow;  but  I  don't  see  my 
way  to  it." 

"  I  shall  talk  to  our  regimental  doctor  about  it,  and  get  put 
through  a  course  of  fool's-diet  before  we  start  for  India." 

"  Flap-doodle,  they  call  it,  what  fools  are  fed  on.  But  it's 
odd  that  you  should  have  broken  out  in  this  place,  when  all  the 
way  home  I've  been  doing  nothing  but  envying  your  special 
talent." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Just  the  opposite  one — the  art  of  falling  or*  your  feet.  I 
should  like  to  exchange  with  you." 

"  You'd  make  a  precious  bad  bargain  of  it,  then." 

"  There's  twelve  striking.  I  must  knock  in.  Good-night. 
You'll  be  round  to  breakfast  at  nine?" 

"  All  right.  I  believe  in  your  breakfasts,  rather,"  said  East, 
as  they  shook  hands  at  the"  gate  of  St.  Ambrose,  into  which 
Tom  disappeared,  while  the  lieutenant  strolled  back  to  the 
Mitre. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THIRD   YEAR. 

EAST  returned  to  his  regiment  in  a  few  days,  and  at  the  «nd 
of  the  month  the  gallant  101st  embarked  for  India.  Tom 
wrote  several  letters  to  the  lieutenant,  inclosing  notes  to  Harry 


462  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

with  gleanings  of  news  from  Englebourn,  where  his  escape  on 
the  night  of  the  riot  had  been  a  nine-days'  wonder,  and,  now 
that  he  was  fairly  "  'listed  "  and  out  of  the  way,  public  opinion 
was  beginning  to  turn  in  his  favor.  In  due  course  a  letter 
arrived  from  the  lieutenant,  dated  Cape  Town,  giving  a  pros- 
perous account  of  the  voyage  so  far.  East  did  not  say  much 
about  "your  convict,"  as  he  still  insisted  on  calling  Harry; 
but  the  little  he  did  say  was  very  satisfactory,  and  Tom  sent  off 
this  part  of  the  letter  to  Katie,  to  whom  he  had  confided  the 
whole  story,  entreating  her  to  make  the  best  use  of  it  in  the 
interests  of  the  young  soldier.  And,  after  this  out-of-the  way 
beginning,  he  settled  down  into  the  usual  routine  of  his  Oxford 
life. 

The  change  in  his  opinions  and  objects  of  interests  brought 
him  now  into  more  intimate  relations  with  a  set  of  whom  he 
had  as  yet  seen  little.  For  want  of  a  better  name,  we  may 
call  them  "  the  party  of  progress."  At  their  parties,  instead  of 
practical  jokes  and  boisterous  mirth  and  talk  of  boats  and  bats 
and  guns  and  horses,  the  highest  and  deepest  questions  of 
morals  and  politics  and  metaphysics  were  discussed,  and  dis- 
cussed with  a  freshness  and  enthusiasm  which  is  apt  to  wear 
off  when  doing  has  to  take  the  place  of  talking,  but  has  a 
strange  charm  of  its  own  while  it  lasts,  and  is  looked  back  to 
with  loving  regret  by  those  for  whom  it  is  no  longer  a  possi* 
bility. 

With  this  set  Tom  soon  fraternized,  and  drank  in  many  new 
ideas,  and  took  to  himself  also  many  new  crotchets  besides 
those  with  which  he  was  already  weighted.  Almost  all  his 
new  acquaintance  were  Liberal  in  politics,  but  a  few  only  were 
ready  to  go  all  lengths  with  him.  They  were  all  Union  men, 
and  Tom,  of  course,  followed  the  fashion,  and  soon  propounded 
theories  in  that  institution  which  gained  him  the  name  of 
Chartist  Brown. 

There  was  a  strong  mixture  of  self-conceit  in  it  all.  He  had 
a  kind  of  idea  that  he  had  discovered  something  which  it  was 
creditable  to  have  discovered,  and  that  it  was  a  very  fine 
thing  to  have  all  these  feelings  for,  and  sympathies  with, 
the  masses,  and  to  believe  in  democracy  and  glorious  hu- 
manity and  a  good  time  coming,  and  I  know  not  what  other 
big  matters.  And,  although  it  startled  and  pained  him  at  first 
to  hear  himself  called  ugly  names,  which  he  had  hated  and 
despised  from  his  youth  up,  and  to  know  that  many  of  his  old 
acquaintance  looked  upon  him,  not  simply  as  a  madman,  but  as 
a  madman  with  snobbish  proclivities;  yet,  when  the  first 
plunge  was  over,  there  was  a  good  deal  on  the  other  hand 
which  tickled  his  vanity,  and  was  far  from  being  unpleasant. 


THIRD  TEAR.  463 

To  do  him  justice,  however,  the  disagreeables  wei\,  such 
that,  had  there  not  been  some  genuine  belief  at  the  bottom,  he 
would  certainly  have  been  headed  back  very  speedily  into  the 
fold  of  political  and  social  orthodoxy.  As  it  was,  amidst  the 
cloud  of  sophisms  and  platitudes  and  big  one-sided  ideas  half 
mastered,  which  filled  his  thoughts  and  overflowed  in  his  talk, 
there  was  growing  in  him  and  taking  firmer  hold  on  him  daily 
a  true  and  broad  sympathy  for  men  as  men,  and  especially  for 
poor  men  as  poor  men,  and  a  righteous  and  burning  hatred 
against  all  laws,  customs,  or  notions,  which,  according  to  his 
light,  either  were  or  seemed  to  be  setting  aside,  or  putting 
anything  else  in  the  place  of,  or  above  the  man.  It  was  with 
him  the  natural  outgrowth  of  the  child's  and  boy's  training 
(though  his  father  would  have  been  much  astonished  to  be  told 
so),  and  the  instincts  of  those  early  days  were  now  getting 
rapidly  set  into  habits  and  faiths,  and  becoming  a  part  of 
himsell. 

In  this  stage  of  his  life,  as  in  so  many  former  ones,  Tom  got 
great  help  from  his  intercourse  with  Hardy,  now  the  rising  tut- 
or of  the  college.  Hardy  was  travelling  much  the  same  road  him- 
self as  our  hero,  but  was  somewhat  further  on,  and  had  come 
into  it  from  a  different  country,  and  through  quite  other  ob- 
stacles. Their  early  lives  had  been  so  different ;  and,  both  by 
nature  and  from  long  and  severe  self-restraint  and  discipline, 
Hardy  was  much  the  less  impetuous  and  demonstrative  of  the 
two.  He  did  not  rush  out,  therefore  (as  Tom  was  too  much  in- 
clined to  do),  the  moment  he  had  seized  hold  of  the  end  of  a 
new  idea  which  he  felt  to  be  good  for  him  and  what  he  wanted, 
and  brandish  it  in  the  face  of  all  comers,  and  think  himself  a 
traitor  to  the  truth  if  he  wasn't  trying  to  make  everybody  he 
met  with  eat  it.  Hardy,  on  the  contrary,  would  test  his  nevr 
idea,  and  turn  it  over,  and  prove  it  as  far  as  he  could,  and  try 
to  get  hold  of  the  whole  of  it,  and  ruthlessly  strip  off  any  tin- 
sel or  rose-pink  sentiment  with  which  it  might  happen  to  be 
connected. 

Often  and  often  did  Tom  suffer  under  this  severe  method, 
and  rebel  against  it,  and  accuse  his  friend,  both  to  his  face  and 
in  his  own  secret  thoughts,  of  coldness  and  want  of  faith,  and 
all  manner  of  other  sins  of  omission  and  commission.  In  the 
end,  however,  he  generally  came  ronnd,  with  more  or  less  of  re- 
bellion, according  to  the  severity  of  the  treatment,  and  ac- 
knowledged that,  when  Hardy  brought  him  down  from  riding 
the  high  horse,  it  was  not  without  good  reason,  and  that  the 
dust  in  which  he  was  rolled  was  always  most  who'esorue  dust. 

For  instance,  there  was  no  phrase  more  frequently  in  the 


464  TOM  &ZOW31  AT 

mouths  of  the  party  of  progress  than  "  the  good  cause."  It 
was  a  fine,  big-sounding  phrase,  which  could  be  used  with  great 
effect  in  perorations  of  speeches  at  the  0  niou,  and  was  suffi- 
ciently  indefinite  to  be  easily  defended  from  ordinary  attacks, 
while  it  saved  him  who  used  it  the  trouble  of  ascertaining  ac- 
curately for  himself  or  settling  for  his  hearers  what  it  really  did 
mean.  But,  however  satisfactory  it  might  be  before  promis- 
cuous audiences,  and  so  long  as  vehement  assertion  or  decla- 
ration was  all  that  was  required  to  uphold  it,  this  same  "  good 
cause  "  was  liable  to  come  to  much  grief  when  it  had  to  get  it- 
self defined.  Hardy  was  particularly  given  to  persecution  on 
this  subject,  when  he  could  get  Tom,  and,  perhaps,  one  or  two 
others,  in  a  quiet  room  by  themselves.  While  professing  the 
utmost  sympathy  for  "  the  good  cause,"  and  a  hope  as  strong 
as  theirs  that  all  its  enemies  might  find  themselves  suspended 
to  lamp-posts  as  soon  as  possible,  he  would  pursue  it  into  cor- 
ners from  which  escape  was  most  difficult,  asking  it  and  its  sup- 
porters what  it  exactly  was,  and  driving  them  from  one  cloud- 
land  to  another,  and  from  "  the  good  cause"  to  the  "  people's 
cause,"  "  the  cause  of  labor,"  and  other  like  troublesome  defini- 
tions, until  the  great  idea  seemed  to  have  no  shape  or  existence 
any  longer  even  in  their  own  brains. 

But  Hardy's  persecution,  provoking  as  it  was  for  the  rime, 
never  went  to  the  undermining  of  any  real  conviction  in  the 
minds  of  his  juniors,  or  the  shaking  of  anything  which  did  not 
need  shaking,  but  only  helped  them  to  clear  their  ideas  and 
brains  as  to  what  they  were  talking  and  thinking  about,  and 
gave  them  glimpses — soon  clouded  over  again,  but  most  useful 
nevertheless— of  the  truth,  that  there  were  a  good  many  knotty 
questions  to  be  solved  before  a  man  could  be  quite  sure  that 
he  had  found  out  the  way  to  set  the  world  thoroughly  to  rights 
and  heal  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  t 

Hardy  treated  another  of  his  friend's  most  favorite  notions 
even  with  less  respect  than  this  one  of  "the  good  cause.5' 
Democracy,  that  "  universal  democracy,"  which  their  favorite 
author  had  recently  declared  to  be  "  an  inevitable  fact  of  the 
days  in  which  we  live,"  was,  perhaps,  on  the  whole  the  pet  idea 
of  the  small  section  of  liberal  young  Oxford,  with  whom  Tom 
was  now  hand  and  glove.  They  lost  no  opportunity  of  wor- 
shipping it,  and  doing  battle  for  it ;  and,  indeed,  did  most  of 
them  very  truly  believe  that  the  state  of  the  world  which  this 
universal  democracy  was  to  bring  about,  and  which  was  com- 
ing no  man  could  say  how  soon,  was  to  be  in  fact  that  age  of 
peace  and  good-will  which  men  had  dreamed  of  in  all  times, 
when  the  lion  should  He  down  with  the  kid,  and  nation  should 
not  vex  nation  any  more- 


THIRD  YEAR. 

After  hearing  something  to  this  effect  from  Tom  on  several 
occasions,  Hardy  cunningly  lured  him  to  his  rooms  on  the  pre- 
tence of  talking  over  the  prospects  of  the  boat  club,  and  then, 
having  seated  him  by  the  fire,  which  he  himself  proceeded  to 
assault  gently  with  the  poker,  propounded  suddenly  to  him 
the  question, — 

"  Brown,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by  *  democ- 
racy?" 

Tom  at  once  saw  the  trap  into  which  be  had  fallen,  and  made 
several  efforts  to  break  away,  but  unsuccessfully;  and,  beinjr 
seated  to  a  cup  of  tea,  and  allowed  to  smoke,  was  then  and  there 
grievously  oppressed  and  mangled  and  sat  upon,  by  his  oldest 
and  best  friend.  He  took  his  ground  carefully,  and  propounded 
only  what  he  felt  sure  that  Hardy  himself  would  at  once  ao 
cept, — what  no  man  of  any  worth  could  possibly  take  exception 
to.  He  meant  much  more,  he  said,  than  this,  but  for  the  pres- 
ent purpose  it  would  be  enough  for  him  to  say  that,  whatever 
else  it  might  mean,  democracy  in  his  mouth  always  meant  that 
every  man  should  have  a  share  in  the  government  of  his  coun- 
try. 

Hardy,  seeming  to  acquiesce,  and  making  a  sudden  change 
An  the  subject  of  their  talk,  decoyed  his  innocent  guest  away 
from  the  thought  of  democracy  for  a  few  minutes,  by  holding 
up  to  him  the  flag  of  hero-worship,  in  which  worship  Tom  was, 
of  course,  a  sedulous  believer.  Then,  having  involved  him  in 
most  difficult  country,  his  persecutor  opened  fire  upon  him 
from  masked  batteries  of  the  most  deadly  kind,  the  guns  being 
all  from  the  armory  of  his  own  prophets. 

"You  long  for  the  rule  of  the  ablest  man,  everywhere,  at  all 
times?  To  find  your  ablest  man,  and  then  give  him  power, 
and  obey  him — that  you  hold  to  be  about  the  highest  act  of 
wisdom  which  a  nation  could  be  capable  of?" 

"Yes  ;  and  you  know  you  believe  that  too,  Hardy,  just  as 
firmly  as  I  do." 

"  I  hope  so.  But  then,  how  about  our  universal  democracy, 
and  every  man  having  a  share  in  the  government  of  his  coun- 
try?" 

Tom  felt  that  his  flank  was  turned  ;  in  fact,  the  contrast  of 
his  two  beliefs  had  never  struck  him  vividly  before,  and  he  was 
consequently  much  confused.  But  Hardy  went  on  tapping  a 
big  coal  gently  with  the  poker,  and  gave  him  time  to  recover 
himself  and  collect  his  thoughts. 

"I  don't  mean,  of  course,  that  every  man  is  to  have  an  actual 
share  in  the  government,"  he  said,  at  last 

<k  But  every  man  is  somehow  to  have   a  share  ;  and.  if  not 


466  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

an    actual   one,  I  can't   see   what  the   proposition  comes   to." 

"  I  call  it  having  a  share  in  the  government  when  a  man  has 
a  share  in  saying  who  shall  govern  him." 

"  Well,  you'll  own  that's  a  very  different  thing.  But,  let's 
eee ;  will  that  find  our  wisest  governor  for  us — letting  all  the 
foolishest  men  in  the  nation  have  a  say  as  to  who  he  is  to  be  ?" 

"  Come  now,  Hardy ;  I've  heard  you  say  that  you  are  for 
manhood  suffrage." 

"  That's  another  question ;  you  let  in  another  idea  there  ;  at 
present  we  are  considering  whether  the  voxpopuli  is  the  best 
test  for  finding  your  best  man.  I'm  afraid  all  history  is  against 
you.' 

"  That's  a  good  joke.     Now,  there  I  defy  you,  Hardy." 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,  then,  and  let  us  see." 

"  I  suppose  you'll  say,  then,  that  the  Egyptian  and  Babylo- 
ian  empires  were  better  than  the  little  Jewish  republic." 

"  Republic !  well,  let  that  pass.  But  i  never  heard  that  the 
Jews  elected  Moses,  or  any  of  the  judges." 

"  Well,  never  mind  the  Jews  :  they're  an  exceptional  case  : 
you  can't  argue  from  them." 

"  I  don't  admit  that.  I  believe  just  the  contrary.  But  go 
on." 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  say  to  the  glorious  Greek  repub- 
lics, with  Athens  at  the  head  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  no  nation  ever  treated  their  best  men  so  badly. 
I  see  I  must  put  on  a  lecture  in  Aristophanes  for  your  special 
benefit.  Vain,  irritable,  shallow,  suspicious  old  Demus,  with 
his  two  oboli  in  his  cheek,  and  doubting  only  between  Cleon 
and  the  sausage-seller,  which  he  shall  choose  for  his  wisest  man 
— not  to  govern,  but  to  serve  his  whims  and  caprices.  You 
must  call  another  witness,  I  think." 

"  But  that's  a  caricature." 

"  Take  the  picture,  then,  out  of  Thucydides,  Plato,  Xeno- 
phon,  how  you  will,  and  where  you  will — you  won't  mend  the 
matter  much.  You  shouldn't  go  so  fast,  Brown  ;  you  won't 
mind  my  saying  so,  I  know.  You  don't  get  clear  in  your  own 
mind  before  you  pitch  into  every  one  who  comes  across  you, 
and  so  do  your  own  side  (which  I  admit  is  often  the  right  one) 
more  harm  than  good." 

Tom  couldn't  stand  being  put  down  so  summarily,  and  fought 
over  the  ground  from  one  country  to  another,  from  Rome  to 
the  United  States,  with  all  the  arguments  he  could  master,  but 
with  little  success.  That  unfortunate  first  admission  of  his, 
he  felt  it  throughout  like  a  millstone  round  his  neck,  and  could 
not  help  admitting  to  himself,  when  he  left,  that  there  was  a 


TUlliD  YEAR.  407 

good  deal  in  Hardy's  concluding  remai-k,  "  You'll  find  it  rather 
a  tough  business  to  get  your  '  universal  democracy,'  and 'gov- 
ernment by  the  wisest,'  to  pull  together  in  one  coach." 

Notwithstanding  all  such  occasional  reverses  and  cold  baths, 
however,  Tom  went  on  strengthening  himself  in  his  new  opin- 
ions, and  maintaining  them  with  all  the  zeal  of  a  convert.  The 
shelves  of  his  bookcase,  and  the  walls  of  his  rooms,  soon  began 
to  show  signs  of  the  change  which  was  taking  place  in  his  ways 
of  looking  at  men  and  things.  Hitherto  a  framed  engraving  of 
George  III.  had  hung  over  his  mantelpiece ;  but  early  in  this, 
his  third  year,  the  frame  had  disappeared  for  a  few  days,  and 
when  it  re-appeared,  the  solemn  face  of  John  Milton  looked  out 
from  it,  while  the  honest  monarch  had  retired  into  a  portfolio. 
A  fac-simile  of  Magna  Charta  soon  displaced  a  large  colored 
print  of  "  A  Day  with  the  Pycheley  ; "  and  soon  afterwards 
the  death-warrant  of  Charles  I.  with  its  grim  and  resolute  rows 
of  signatures  and  seals,  appeared  on  the  wall  in  a  place  of  honor, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Milton. 

Squire  Brown  was  passing  through  Oxford,  and  paid  his  son 
a  visit  soon  after  this  last  arrangement  had  been  completed. 
He  dined  in  hall,  at  the  high  table,  being  still  a  member  of  the 
college,  and  afterwards  came  with  Hardy  to  Tom's  rooms  to 
have  a  quiet  glass  of  wine,  and  spend  the  evening  with  his  son 
and  a  few  of  his  friends,  who  had  been  asked  to  meet  "  the  gov- 
ernor." 

Tom  had  a  struggle  with  himself  whether  he  should  not  re- 
move the  death-warrant  into  his  bedroom  for  the  evening,  and 
had  actually  taken  it  down  with  this  view ;  but  in  the  end  he 
could  not  stomach  such  a  backsliding,  and  so  restored  it  to  its 
place.  "  I  hrve  never  concealed  my  opinions  from  my  father," 
he  thought,  "though  I  don't  think  he  quite  knows  what  they 
are.  But  if  he  doesn't,  he  ought,  and  the  sooner  the  better.  I 
should  be  a  sneak  to  try  to  hide  them.  I  know  he  won't  like 
it,  but  he  is  always  just  and  fair,  and  will  make  allowances. 
At  any  rate,  up  it  goes  again." 

And  so  he  rehung  the  death-warrant,  but  with  the  derout 
secret  hope  that  his  father  might  not  see  it. 

The  wine-party  went  off  admirably.  The  men  were  nice, 
gentlemanly,  intelligent  fellows ;  and  the  squire,  who  had  been 
carefully  planted  by  Tom  with  his  back  to  the  death-warrant, 
enjoyed  himself  very  much.  At  last  they  all  went,  except 
Hardy ;  and  now  the  nervous  time  approached.  For  a  short 
time  longer  the  three  sat  at  the  wine-table,  while  the  squire  en- 
larged upon  the  great  improvement  in  young  men,  and  the 
habits  of  the  university,  especially  in  the  matter  of  drinking. 


468  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Tom  had  only  opened  three  bottles  of  port.  In  his  time  the  men 
would  have  drunk  certainly  not  less  than  a  bottle  a  man ;  and 
other  like  remarks  he  made,  as  he  sipped  his  coffee,  and  then, 
pushing  back  his  chair,  said,  "  Well,  Tom,  hadn't  your  servant 
better  clear  away  ?  and  then  we  can  draw  round  the  fire,  and 
have  a  talk." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  a  turn  while  he  is  clearing  ? 
There's  the  Martyr's  Memorial  you  haven't  seen." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  know  the  place  well  enough.  I  don't 
come  to  walk  about  in  the  dark.  We  sha'n't  be  in  your  man's 
way." 

And  so  Tom's  scout  came  in  to  clear  away,  took  out  the  ex- 
tra leaves  of  his  table,  put  on  the  cloth,  and  laid  tea.  During 
these  operations  Mr.  Brown  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  looking  about  him  as  he  talked:  when  there  was  more 
space  to  move  in,  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  and  very 
«oon  took  to  remarking  the  furniture  and  arrangement  of  the 
room.  One  after  another  the  pictures  came  under  his  notice, 
' — most  of  them  escaped  without  comment,  the  squire  simply 
pausing  a  moment,  and  then  taking  up  his  walk  again.  Magna 
Charta  drew  forth  his  hearty  approval.  It  was  a  capital  no- 
tion to  hang  such  things  on  your  walls,  instead  of  bad  prints 
of  steeple-chases,  or  trash  of  that  sort.  "  Ah,  here's  something 
else  of  the  same  kind.  Why,  Tom,  what's  this?"  said  the 
squire,  as  he  paused  before  the  death-warrant.  There  was  a 
moment  or  two  of  dead  silence,  while  the  squire's  eye  ran  down 
the  names,  from  Jo.  Bradshaw  to  Miles  Corbet ;  and  then  he 
turned,  and  came  and  sat  down  opposite  to  his  son.  Tom  ex- 
pected his  father  to  be  vexed,  but  was  not  the  least  prepared 
for  the  tone  of  pain  and  sorrow  and  anger,  in  which  he  first  in- 
quired, and  then  remonstrated. 

For  some  time  past  the  squire  and  his  son  had  not  felt  so 
comfortable  together  as  of  old.  Mr.  Brown  had  been  annoyed 
fay  much  that  Tom  had  done  in  the  case  of  Harry  Winbnrn, 
though  he  did  not  know  all.  There  had  sprung  up  a  barrier 
somehow  or  other  between  them,  neither  of  them  knew  how. 
They  had  often  felt  embarrassed  at  being  left  alone  together 
during  the  last  year,  and  found  that  there  were  certain  topics 
which  they  could  not  talk  upon,  which  they  avoided  by  mutual 
consent.  Every  now  and  then  the  constraint  and  embarrass- 
ment fell  off  for  a  short  time,  for  at  bottom  they  loved  and  ap- 
preciated one  another  heartily;  but  the  divergences  in  their 
thoughts  and  habits  had  become  very  serious,  and  seemed  likely 
to  increase  rather  than  not.  They  felt  keenly  the  chasm  be- 
tween the  two  generations ;  as  they  looked  at  one  another  from 


THIRD  TEAR.  469 

the  opposite  uanks,  each  in  his  secret  heart  blamed  the  other 
in  great  measure  for  that  which  was  the  fault  of  neither. 
Mixed  with  the  longings  which  each  felt  for  a  better  under- 
standing was  enough  of  reserve  and  indignation  to  prevent 
them  from  coming  to  it.  The  discovery  of  their  differences 
was  too  recent,  and  they  were  too  much  alike  in  character  and 
temper  for  either  to  make  large  enough  allowances  for,  or  to 
be  really  tolerant  of,  the  other. 

This  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  they  had  come  to  out- 
spoken and  serious  difference,  and,  though  the  collision  had 
been  exceedingly  painful  to  both,  yet,  when  they  parted  for 
the  night,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  ice  had  been 
thoroughly  broken.  Before  his  father  left  the  room,  Tom  had 
torn  the  fac-simile  of  the  death-warrant  out  of  its  frame,  and 
put  it  in  the  fire,  protesting,  however,  at  the  same  time,  that, 
though  "  he  did  this  out  of  deference  to  his  father,  and  was 
deeply  grieved  at  having  given  him  pain,  he  could  not  and 
would  not  give  up  his  honest  convictions,  or  pretend  that  they 
were  changed,  or  even  shaken." 

The  squire  walked  back  to  his  hotel  deeply  moved.  Who 
can  wonder  ?  He  *was  a  man  full  of  living  and  vehement  con- 
victions. One  of  his  early  recollections  had  been  the  arrival 
in  England  of  the  news  of  the  beheading  of  Louis  XVI.,  and 
the  doings  of  the  reign  of  terror.  He  had  been  bred  in  the 
times  when  it  was  held  impossible  for  a  gentleman  or  a  Chris- 
tian to  hold  such  views  as  his  son  had  been  maintaining,  and, 
like  many  of  the  noblest  Englishmen  of  his  time,  had  gone  with 
and  accepted  the  creed  of  the  day. 

Tom  remained  behind,  dejected  and  melancholy;  now  ac- 
cusing his  father  of  injustice  and  bigotry,  now  longing  to  go 
after  him,  and  give  up  everything.  What  were  all  his  opinions 
and  convictions  compared  with  his  father's  confidence  and  love  ? 
At  breakfast  the  next  morning,  however,  after  each  of  them 
had  had  time  for  thinking  over  what  had  passed,  they  met  with 
a  cordiality  which  was  as  pleasant  to  each  as  it  was  unlocked 
for ;  and  from  this  visit  of  his  father  to  him  at  Oxiord1  Tom 
dated  a  new  and  more  satisfactory  epoch  in  their  intercourse. 

The  fact  had  begun  to  dawn  on  the  squire  that  the  world 
had  changed  a  good  deal  since  his  time.  He  saw  that  young 
men  were  much  improved  in  some  ways,  and  acknowledged  the 
fact  heartily ;  on  the  other  hand,  they  had  taken  up  with  a  lot 
of  new  notions  which  he  could  not  understand,  and  thought 
mischievous  and  bad.  Perhaps  Tom  might  get  over  them  as 
he  got  to  be  older  and  wiser,  and  in  the  mean  time  he  must 
take  the  evil  with  the  good.  At  any  rate,  he  was  too  fair  a 


470  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

man  to  try  to  dragoon  his  son  out  of  anything  which  he  really 
believed.  Tom  on  his  part  gratefully  accepted  the  change  in 
his  father's  manner,  and  took  all  means  of  showing  his  grati- 
tude by  consulting  and  talking  freely  to  him  on  such  subjects 
as  they  could  agree  upon,  which  were  numerous,  keeping  in  the 
background  the  questions  which  had  provoked  painful  discus- 
sions between  them.  By  degrees  these  even  could  be  tenderly 
approached  ;  and,  now,  that  they  were  approached  in  a  dif- 
ferent spirit,  the  honest  beliefs  of  the  father  and  son  no  longer 
looked  so  monstrous  to  one  another,  the  hard  and  sharp  outlines 
began  to  wear  off,  and  the  views  of  each  of  them  to  be  modi- 
fied. Thus,  bit  by  bit,  by  a  slow  but  sure  process,  a  better 
understanding  than  ever  was  reestablished  between  them. 

This  beginning  of  a  better  state  of  things  in  his  relations 
with  his  father  consoled  Tom  for  many  other  matters  that 
seemed  to  go  wrong  with  him,  and  was  a  constant  bit  of  bright 
sky  to  turn  to  when  the  rest  of  his  horizon  looked  dark  and 
dreary,  as  it  did  often  enough. 

For  it  proved  a  very  trying  year  to  him,  this  his  third  and 
last  year  at  the  university  :  a  year  full  of  large  dreams  and 
small  performances,  of  unfulfilled  hopes,  arfd  struggles  to  set 
himself  right,  ending  evermore  surely  in  failure  and  disappoint- 
ment. The  common  pursuits  of  the  place  had  lost  their  fresh- 
ness, and  with  it  much  of  their  charm.  He  was  beginning  to 
feel  himself  in  a  cage,  and  to  beat  against  the  bars  of  it. 

Often,  in  spite  of  all  his  natural  hopefulness,  his  heart  seemed 
to  sicken  and  turn  cold,  without  any  apparent  reason ;  his  old 
pursuits  palled  on  him,  and  he  scarcely  cared  to  turn  to  new  ones. 
What  was  it  that  made  life  so  blank  to  him  at  these  times? 
How  was  it  that  he  could  not  keep  the  spirit  within  him  alive 
and  warm? 

It  was  easier  to  ask  such  questions  than  to  get  an  answer. 
"Was  it  not  this  place  he  was  living  in,  and  the  ways  of  it  ?  No, 
for  the  place  and  its  ways  were  the  same  as  ever,  and  his  own 
way  of  life  in  it  better  than  ever  before.  Was  it  the  want  of 
sight  or  tidings  of  Mary  ?  Sometimes  he  thought  so,  and  then 
cast  the  thought  away  as  treason.  His  love  for  her  was  ever  sink- 
ing deeper  into  him,  and  raising  and  purifying  him.  Light  and 
strength  and  life  came  from  that  source ;  craven  weariness  and 
coldness  of  heart,  come  from  whence  they  might,  were  not  from 
that  quarter.  But,  precious  as  his  love  was  to  him,  and  deeply 
as  it  affected  his  whole  life,  he  felt  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing beyond  it — that  its  full  satisfaction  would  not  be  enough 
for  him.  The  bed  was  too  narrow  for  a  man  to  stretch  himself 
on.  What  he  was  in  search  of  must  underlie  and  embrace  his 


THIRD  TEAR.  471 

human  love,  and  support  it.  Beyond  and  above  all  private  and 
personal  desires  and  hopes  and  longings  he  was  conscious  of  a 
restless  craving  and  feeling  about  after  something  which  he 
could  not  grasp,  and  yet  which  was  not  avoiding  him,  which 
seemed  to  be  mysteriously  laying  hold  of  him  and  surrounding 
him. 

The  routine  of  chapels  and  lectures  and  reading  for  degree, 
boating,  cricketing,  Union  debating — all  well  enough  in  their 
way — left  this  vacuum  unfilled.  There  was  a  great  outer  visible 
world,  the  problems  and  puzzles  of  which  were  rising  before  hint 
and  haunting  him  more  and  more ;  and  a  great  inner  and  invisi- 
ble world  opening  round  him  in  an  awful  depth.  He  seemed  to 
be  standing  on  the  brink  of  each — now,  shivering  and  helpless, 
feeling  like  an  atom,  about  to  be  whirled  into  the  great  flood  and 
carried  he  knew  not  where — now,  ready  to  plunge  in  and  take 
his  part,  full  of  hope  and  belief  that  he  was  meant  to  buffet  in 
the  strength  of  a  man  with  the  seen  and  the  unseen,  and  to  be 
subdued  by  neither. 

In  such  a  year  at  this  a  bit  of  steady,  bright,  blue  sky  was  a 
boon  beyond  all  price,  and  so  he  felt  to  be.  And  it  was  not  only 
with  his  father  that  Tom  regained  lost  ground  in  this  year.  He 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  neglect 
or  lose  any  particle  of  human  sympathy,  and  so  he  turned  to 
old  friendships,  and  revived  the  correspondence  with  several  of 
his  old  school-fellows,  and  particularly  with  Arthur,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  latter,  who  had  mourned  bitterly  over  the 
few  half-yearly  lines,  all  he  had  got  from  Tom  of  late,  in  an- 
swer to  his  own  letters,  which  had  themselves,  under  the  weight 
of  neglect,  gradually  dwindled  down  to  mere  formal  matters. 
A  specimen  of  the  latter  correspondence  may  fitly  close  the  chap- 
ter,— 

/St.  Ambrose. 

"  DEAR  GEORDIE, — I  can  hardly  pardon  you  for  having  gone 
to  Cambridge,  though  you  have  got  a  Trinity  scholarship—- 
which I  suppose  is,  on  the  whole,  quite  as  good  a  thing  as  any- 
thing of  the  sort  you  could  have  got  up  here.  I  had  so  looked 
forward  to  having  you  here  though,  and  now  I  feel  that  we 
shall  probably  scarcely  ever  meet.  You  will  go  your  way  and 
I  mine ;  and  one  alters  so  quickly,  and  gets  into  such  strange 
new  grooves,  that,  unless  one  sees  a  man  about  once  a  week  at 
least,  you  may  be  just  like  strangers  when  you  are  thrown  to- 
gether again.  If  you  had  come  up  here  it  would  have  been  all 
right,  and  we  should  have  gone  on  all  through  life  as  we  were 
when  I  left  school,  and  as  I  know  we  should  be  again  in  n« 
time  if  you  had  come  here.  But  now  who  can  tell  ? 


472  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  What  makes  me  think  so  much  of  this  is  a  visit  of  a  few 
days  that  East  paid  me  just  before  his  regiment  went  to  India. 
I  feel  that  if  he  hadn't  done  it,  and  we  had  not  met  till  he  came 
back, — years  hence  perhaps, — we  should  never  have  been  to 
one  another  what  we  shall  be  now.  The  break  would  have 
been  too  great.  Now  it's  all  right.  You  would  have  so  liked 
to  see  the  old  fellow  grown  into  a  man,  but  not  a  bit  altered — 
just  the  quiet,  old  way,  pooh-poohing  you,  and  pretending  to 
care  for  nothing,  but  ready  to  cut  the  nose  off  his  face,  or  go 
through  fire  and  water  for  you  at  a  pinch  if  you'll  only  let  him 
go  his  own  way  about  it,  and  have  his  grumble,  and  say  that 
he  does  it  all  from  the  worst  possible  motives. 

"But  we  must  try  not  to  lose  hold  of  one  another,  Geordie. 
It  would  be  a  bitter  day  to  me  if  I  thought  anything  of  the 
kind  could  ever  happen  again.  We  must  write  more  to  one 
another.  I've  been  awfully  lazy,  I  know,  about  it  for  this  last 
year  and  more ;  but  then  I  always  thought  you  would  be  com- 
ing  up  here,  and  so  that  it  didn't  matter  much.  But  now  I 
will  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  write  to  you  about  '  my  secret 
thoughts,  my  works,  and  ways : '  and  you  must  do  it  too.  If 
we  can  only  tide  over  the  next  year  or  two  we  shall  get  into 
plain  sailing,  and  I  suppose  it  will  all  go  right  then.  At  least, 
I  can't  believe  that  one  is  likely  to  have  many  such  up-and- 
dowu  years  in  one's  life  as  the  last  two.  If  one  is,  goodness 
knows  where  I  shall  end.  You  know  the  outline  of  what  has 
happened  to  me  from  my  letters,  and  the  talks  we  have  had  in 
my  flying  visits  to  the  old  school ;  but  you  haven't  a  notion  of 
the  troubles  of  mind  I've  been  in,  and  the  changes  I've  gone 
through.  I  can  hardly  believe  it  myself  when  I  look  back. 
However,  I'm  quite  sure  1  have  got  on;  that's  my  great  com- 
fort. It  is  a  strange  blind  sort  of  world,  that's  a  fact,  with 
lots  of  blind  alleys,  down  which  you  go  blundering  in  the  fog 
after  some  seedy  gaslight,  which  you  take  for  the  sun  till  you 
run  against  the  wall  at  the  end,  and  find  out  that  the  light  is  a 
gaslight,  and  that  there's  no  thoroughfare.  But  for  all  that 
one  does  get  on.  You  get  to  know  the  sun's  light  better  and 
better,  and  to  keep  out  of  the  blind  alleys ;  and  I  am  surer  and 
surer  every  day,  that  there's  always  sunlight  enough  for  every 
honest  fellow, — though  I  didn't  think  so  a  few  months  back, 
— and  a  good  round  road  under  his  feet,  if  he  will  only  step 
out  on  it. 

"  Talking  of  blind  alleys  puts  me  in  mind  of  your  last, 
Aren't  you  going  down  a  blind  alley,  or  something  worse? 
There's  no  wall  to  bring  you  up,  that  I  can  see,  down  the  turn 
you've  taken ;  and  then,  what's  the  practical  use  of  it  all  ? 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  473 

What  good  would  you  do  to  yourself,  or  any  one  else,  if  you 
could  get  to  the  end  of  it?  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  fancy,  I 
confess,  what  you  think  will  come  of  speculating  about  necessity 
and  free  will.  I  only  know  that  I  can  hold  out  my  hand  before 
me,  and  can  move  it  to  the  right  or  left,  despite  of  all  powers 
in  heaven  or  earth.  As  I  sit  here  writing  to  you  I  can  let  into 
my  heart,  and  give  the  reins  to  all  sorts  of  devils'  passions, 
or  to  the  spirit  of  God.  Well,  that's  enough  for  me.  I  know 
it  of  myself,  and  I  believe  you  know  it  of  yourself,  and  every- 
body knows  it  of  themselves  or  himself ;  and  why  you  can't  be 
satisfied  with  that,  passes  my  comprehension.  As  if  one  hasn't 
got  puzzles  enough,  and  bothers  enough,  under  one's  nose, 
without  going  a-field  after  a  lot  of  metaphysical  quibbles.  No, 
I'm  wrong, — not  going  a-field, — anything  one  has  to  go  a-field 
for  is  all  right.  What  a  fellow  meets  outside  himself  he  isn't 
responsible  for,  and  must  do  the  best  he  can  with.  But  to  go 
on  forever  looking  inside  of  one's  self,  and  groping  about 
amongst  one's  own  sensations  and  ideas  and  whimsies  of  one 
kind  and  another,  I  can't  conceive  a  poorer  line  of  business  than 
that.  Don't  you  get  into  it  now,  that's  a  dear  boy. 

"Very  likely  you'll  tell  me  you  can't  help  it;  that  everyone 
has  his  own  difficulties,  and  must  fight  them  out,  and  that 
mine  are  one  sort,  and  yours  another.  Well,  perhaps  you  may 
be  right.  I  hope  I'm  getting  to  know  that  my  plummet  isn't 
to  measure  all  the  world.  But  it  does  seem  a  pity  that  men 
shouldn't  be  thinking  about  how  to  cure  some  of  the  wrongs 
which  poor  dear  old  England  is  pretty  near  dying  of,  instead 
of  taking  the  edge  off  their  brains,  and  spending  all  their 
steam  in  speculating  about  all  kinds  of  things,  which  wouldn't 
make  any  poor  man  in  the  world — or  rich  one  either,  for  that 
matter — a  bit  better  off,  if  they  were  all  found  out  and  settled 
to-morrow.  But  here  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  paper.  Don't  be 
angry  at  my  jobation ;  but  write  me  a  long  answer  of  your  owm 
free  will,  and  believe  me  ever  affectionately  yours,  T.  B." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AFTERNOON    VISITOBS. 

Miss  MAEY  PORTER  was  sitting  alone  in  the  front  drawing- 
room  of  her  father's  house,  in  Belgravia,  on  the  afternoon  of  a 
summer's  day  in  this  same  year.  Two  years  and  more  have 
passed  over  her  head  since  we  first  met  her,  and  she  may  be  a 
thought  more  sedate  and  better  dressed,  but  there  is  no  other 
change  to  be  noticed  in  her.  The  room  was  for  the  most  part 
much  like  other  rooms  in  that  quarter  of  the  world.  There 


474  TUM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

were  few  luxuries  in  the  way  of  furniture  which  fallen  man 
can  desire  which  were  not  to  be  found  there ;  but,  over  and 
above  this,  there  was  an  elegance  in  the  arrangement  of  all  the 
knick-knacks  and  ornaments,  and  an  appropriateness  and  good 
taste  in  the  placing  of  every  piece  of  furniture  and  vase  of 
flowers,  which  showed  that  a  higher  order  of  mind  than  the 
upholsterer's  or  housemaid's  was  constantly  overlooking  and 
working  there.  Everything  seemed  to  be  in  its  exact  place,  in 
the  best  place  which  could  have  been  thought  of  for  it,  and  to 
be  the  best  thing  which  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
place ;  and  yet  this  perfection  did  not  strike  you  particularly 
at  first,  or  surprise  you  in  any  way,  but  sank  into  you  gradually, 
BO  that,  until  you  forced  yourself  to  consider  the  matter,  you 
could  not  in  the  least  say  why  the  room  had  such  a  very  pleas- 
ant effect  on  you. 

The  young  lady  to  whom  this  charm  was  chiefly  owing  was 
sitting  by  a  buhl  work-table,  on  which  lay  her  embroidery  and 
a  book.  She  was  reading  a  letter,  which  seemed  deeply  to  in- 
terest her ;  for  she  did  not  hear  the  voice  of  the  butler,  who 
had  just  opened  the  door  and  disturbed  her  solitude,  until  he 
had  repeated  for  the  second  time,  "  Mr.  Smith."  Then  Mary 
jumped  up,  and,  hastily  folding  her  letter,  put  it  into  her 
pocket.  She  was  rather  provoked  at  having  allowed  herself  to 
be  caught  there  alone  by  afternoon  visitors,  and  with  the  ser- 
vants for  having  let  any  one  in ;  nevertheless,  she  welcomed 
Mr.  Smith  with  a  cordiality  of  manner  which  perhaps  rather 
more  than  represented  her  real  feelings,  and,  with  a  "  let 
mamma  know,"  to  the  butler,  set  to  work  to  entertain  her 
visitor.  She  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  doing  this  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  as  all  that  Mr.  Smith  wanted  was  a 
good  listener.  He  was  a  somewhat  heavy  and  garrulous  old 
gentleman,  with  many  imaginary,  and  a  few  real,  troubles,  the 
constant  contemplation  of  which  served  to  occupy  the  whole 
•f  his  own  time,  and  as  much  of  his  friends'  as  he  could  get 
them  to  give  him.  But  scarcely  had  he  settled  himself  com- 
fortably in  an  easy-chair  opposite  to  his  victim,  when  the  butler 
entered  again,  and  announced  "  Mr.  St.  Cloud." 

Mary  was  now  no  longer  at  her  ease.  Her  manner  of  re- 
ceiving her  new  visitor  was  constrained ;  and  yet  it  was  clear 
that  he  was  on  easy  terms  in  the  house.  She  asked  the  butler 
where  his  mistress  was,  and  heard  with  vexation  that  she  had 
gone  out,  but  was  expected  home  almost  immediately.  Charg- 
ing him  to  let  her  mother  know  the  moment  she  returned, 
Mary  turned  to  her  unwelcome  task,  and  sat  herself  down 
again  with  such  resignation  as  she  was  capable  of  at  the  mo- 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  475 

ment.  The  conduct  of  her  visitors  was  by  no  means  calcu- 
lated to  restore  her  composure,  or  make  her  comfortable  be- 
tween them.  She  was  sure  that  they  knew  one  another ;  but 
neither  of  them  would  speak  to  the  other.  There  the  two  sat 
on,  each  resolutely  bent  on  tiring  the  other  out ;  the  elder 
crooning  on  to  her  in  an  undertone,  and  ignoring  the  younger, 
who  in  his  turn  put  on  an  air  of  serene  unconsciousness  of  the 
presence  of  bis  senior,  and  gazed  about  the  room,  and  watched 
Mary,  making  occasional  remarks  to  her  as  i:  no  one  else  were 
present.  On  and  on  they  sat,  her  only  comfort  being  the  hope 
tiiat  neither  of  them  would  have  the  conscience  to  stay  on 
after  the  departure  of  the  other. 

Between  them  Mary  was  driven  to  her  wits'  end,  and  looked 
for  her  mother  or  for  some  new  visitor  to  come  to  her  help,  as 
Wellington  looked  for  the  Prussians  on  the  afternoon  of  Juna 
18th.  At  last  youth  and  insolence  prevailed,  and  Mr.  Smith 
rose  to  go.  Mary  got  up  too,  and  after  his  departure  remained 
standing,  in  hopes  that  her  other  visitor  would  take  the  hint 
and  follow  the  good  example.  But  St.  Cloud  had  not  the  least 
intention  of  moving. 

"  Really,  your  good-nature  is  quite  astonishing,  Miss  Porter," 
he  said,  leaning  forwards  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
following  the  pattern  of  one  of  the  flowei-s  on  the  carpet  with 
his  cane,  which  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  showing  his  deli- 
cately gloved  hand  to  advantage. 

*' Indeed,  why  do  you  think  so?"  she  asked;  taking  up  her 
embroidery,  and  pretending  to  begin  working. 

•*  Have  I  not  got  good  reason,  after  sitting  this  half-hour  and 
seeing  you  enduring  old  Smith — the  greatest  bore  in  London? 
I  don't  believe  there  are  three  houses  where  the  servants  dare 
let  him  in.  It  would  be  as  much  as  their  places  were  worth. 
No  porter  could  hope  for  a  character  who  let  him  in  twice  in 
the  season." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "  But  you  know 
.are  have  no  porter,  and,"  sh»  suddenly  checked  herself,  and 
added,  gravely.  "  he  is  an  old  friend,  and  papa  and  mamma 
like  him." 

"  But  the  wearisomeness  of  his  grievances !  those  three  Bona 
in  the  Plungers,  and  their  eternal  scrapes !  How  you  could 
manage  to  keep  a  civil  face !  It  was  a  masterpiece  of  polite 
patience." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  very  sorry  for  his  troubles.  I  wonder  where 
mamma  can  be  ?  We  are  going  to  drive.  Shall  you  be  in  the 
Park  ?  I  think  it  must  be  time  for  me  to  drerfs." 

"  1  hope    not.     It  is   so    seldom   that   I  see  you,  except  in 


476  TOJtf  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

crowded  rooms.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  should  value  such  a 
chance  as  this?" 

,  "Were  you  at  the  new  opera  last  night?"  asked  Mary,  care- 
fully avoiding  his  eye,  and  sticking  to  her  work,  but  scarcely 
able  to  conceal  her  nervousness  and  discomfort. 

"  Yes,  I  was  there ;  but — " 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  about  it,  then  ;  I  hear  it  was  a  great  success." 

"  Another  time.  We  can  talk  of  the  opera  anywhere.  Let 
me  speak  now  of  something  else.  You  must  have  seen,  Miss 
Porter—" 

"  How  can  you  think  I  will  talk  of  anything  till  you  have 
told  me  about  the  opera?"  interrupted  Mary,  rapidly  and  ner- 
vously. "  Was  Grisi  very  fine  ?  The  chief  part  was  composed 
for  her,  was  it  not  ?  "  and  dear  old  Lablache — " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  presently  if  you  will  let  me,  in 
five  minutes'  time — I  only  ask  for  five  minutes — " 

"Five  minutes.  Oh,  no,  not  five  seconds.  I  must  hear 
about  the  new  opera  before  I  will  listen  to  a  word  of  anything 
else." 

"Indeed,  Miss  Porter,  you  must  pardon  me  for  disobeying. 
But  I  may  not  have  such  a  chance  as  this  again  for  months." 

With  which  prelude  he  drew  his  chair  towards  hers,  and 
Mary  was  just  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  jump  up  and  run 
right  out  of  the  room,  when  the  door  opened,  and  the  butler 
walked  in  with  a  card  on  a  waiter.  Mary  had  never  felt  so 
relieved  in  her  life,  and  could  have  hugged  the  solemn  old 
domestic  when  he  said,  presenting  the  card  to  her, — 

"  The  gentleman  asked  if  Mrs.  or  you  were  in,  Miss,  and 
told  me  to  bring  it  up,  and  find  whether  you  would  see  him  on 
business.  A  clergyman,  I  think,  Miss.  He's  waiting  in  the 
hall." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Of  course.  Yes,  say  I  will  see  him 
directly.  I  mean,  ask  him  to  come  up  now." 

"  Shall  I  show  him  into  the  library,  Miss?" 

"  No,  no ;  in  here ;  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  replied  the  butler,  with  a  deprecatory  look  at 
St.  Cloud,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  see  I  can't  help  it,"  in  answer 
to  his  impatient  telegraphic  signals.  St.  Cloud  had  been  very 
liberal  to  the  Porters  servants. 

Mary's  confidence  had  all  come  back.  Relief  was  at  hand. 
She  could  trust  herself  to  hold  St.  Cloud  at  bay  now,  as  it 
could  not  be  for  more  than  a  few  minutes.  When  she  turned 
to  him  the  nervousness  had  quite  gone  out  of  her  manner,  and 
she  spoke  in  her  old  tone  again,  as  she  laid  her  embroidery 
aside. 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  477 

"  How  lucky  that  you  should  be  here.  Look ;  I  think  you 
must  be  acquainted,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  card  which  the 
butler  had  given  her  to  St.  Cloud. 

He  took  it  mechanically,  and  looked  at  it,  and  then  crushed 
it  in  his  hand,  and  was  going  to  speak.  She  prevented  him. 

"  I  was  right,  I'm  sure.     You  do  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  the  name,"  he  said,  almost  fiercely. 

"  The  name  on  the  card  which  I  gave  you  just  now: — Mr. 
Grey.  He  is  curate  in  one  of  the  poor  Westminster  districts. 
You  must  remember  him,  for  he  was  of  your  college.  He  was 
at  Oxford  with  you.  I  made  his  acquaintance  at  the  Com- 
memoration. He  will  be  so  glad  to  meet  an  old  friend." 

St.  Cloud  was  too  much  provoked  to  answer ;  and  the  next 
moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  butler  announced  Mr.  Grey. 

Grey  came  into  the  room  timidly,  carrying  his  head  a  little 
down  as  usual,  and  glancing  uncomfortably  about  in  the  man- 
ner which  used  to  make  Drysdale  say  that  he  always  looked  as 
though  he  had  just  been  robbing  a  hen-roost.  Mary  went  for- 
ward to  meet  him,  holding  out  her  hand  cordially. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  How  kind  of  you  to 
call  when  you  are  so  busy  !  Mamma  will  be  here  directly.  I 
think  you  must  remember  Mr.  St.  Cloud,  Mr.  Grey  ? 

St.  Cloud's  patience  was  now  quite  gone.  He  drew  himself 
up,  making  the  slightest  possible  inclination  towards  Grey, 
and  then,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  him,  turned  to 
Mary,  Avith  a  look  which  he  meant  to  be  full  of  pitying  admira- 
tion for  her,  and  contempt  of  her  visitor;  but,  as  she  would  not 
look  at  him,  it  was  thrown  away.  So  he  made  his  bow  and 
stalked  out  of  the  room,  angrily  debating  with  himself,  as  he 
went  down  the  stairs,  whether  she  could  have  understood  him. 
He  was  so  fully  convinced  of  the  sacrifice  which  a  man  in  his 
position  was  making  in  paying  serious  attentions  to  a  girl  with 
little  fortune  and  no  connection,  that  he  soon  consoled  himself 
in  the  belief  that  her  embarrassment  only  arose  from  shyness, 
and  that  the  moment  he  could  explain  himself  she  would  be  his 
obedient  and  grateful  servant.  Meantime,  Mary  sat  down  op- 
posite to  the  curate,  and  listened  to  him  as  he  unfolded  his 
errand  awkwardly  enough.  An  execution  was  threatened  in 
the  house  of  a  poor  struggling  widow,  whom  Mrs.  Porter  had 
employed  to  do  needlework  occasionally,  and  who  was  behind 
with  her  rent  through  sickness.  He  was  afraid  that  berthings 
would  be  taken  and  sold  in  the  morning,  unless  she  should  bor- 
row two  sovereigns.  He  had  so  many  claims  on  him  that  h« 
could  not  lend  her  the  money  himself,  and  so  had  come  out  to 
see  what  he  could  do  amongst  those  who  knew  her. 


478  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

By  the  time  Grey  had  arrived  at  the  end  of  his  story,  Mary 
had  made  up  her  mind — not  without  a  little  struggle — to  sacri- 
fice the  greater  part  of  what  was  left  of  her  quarter's  allow- 
ance. After  all,  it  would  only  be  wearing  cleaned  gloves 
instead  of  new  ones,  and  giving  up  her  new  riding-hat  till  next 
quarter.  So  she  jumped  up,  and  said  gayly,  "  Is  that  all,  Mr. 
Grey?  I  have  the  money,  and  I  will  lend  it  her  with  pleasure. 
I  will  fetch  it  directly."  She  tripped  off  to  her  room,  and 
soon  came  back  with  the  money ;  and  just  then  the  butler 
came  in  with  tea,  and  Mary  asked  Mr.  Grey  to  take  some.  He 
looked  tired,  she  said,  and  if  he  would  wait  a  little  time,  he 
would  see  her  mother,  who  would  be  sure  to  do  something 
more  for  the  poor  woman. 

Grey  had  got  up  to  leave,  and  was  standing,  hat  in  hand, 
ready  to  go.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  reckoning  with  himself 
strictly  for  every  minute  of  his  day,  and  was  never  quite  satis* 
fied  with  himself  unless  he  was  doing  the  most  disagreeable 
thing  which  circumstances  for  the  time  being  allowed  him  to 
do.  But  greater  and  stronger  men  than  Grey,  from  Adam 
downwards,  have  yielded  to  the  temptation  before  which  he 
now  succumbed.  He  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes ;  and 
there  was  something  so  fresh  and  bright  in  the  picture  of  the 
dainty  little  tea-service  and  the  young  lady  behind  it,  the  tea 
which  she  was  beginning  to  pour  out  smelt  so  refreshing,  and 
her  hand  and  figure  looked  so  pretty  in  the  operation,  that, 
with  a  sigh  to  departing  resolution,  he  gave  in,  put  his  hat  on 
the  floor,  and  sat  down  opposite  to  the  tempter. 

Grey  took  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  another.  He  thought  he 
had  never  tasted  anything  so  good.  The  delicious  rich  cream, 
and  the  tempting  plate  of  bread  and  butter,  were  too  much 
for  him.  He  fairly  gave  way,  and  resigned  himself  to  physical 
enjoyment,  and  sipped  his  tea,  and  looked  over  his  cup  at 
Mary,  sitting  there  bright  and  kind,  and  ready  to  go  on  pour- 
ing out  for  him  to  any  extent.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  an 
atmosphere  of  life  and  joy  surrounded  her,  within  the  circle  of 
which  he  was  sitting  and  absorbing.  Tea  was  the  only  stimu- 
lant that  Grey  ever  took,  and  he  had  more  need  of  it  than 
usual,  for  he  had  given  away  the  chop,  which  was  his  ordinary 
dinner,  to  a  starving  woman.  He  was  faint  with  fasting  and 
the  bad  air  of  the  hovels  in  which  he  had  been  spending  his 
morning.  The  elegance  of  the  room,  the  smell  of  the  flowers, 
the  charm  of  companionship  with  a  young  woman  of  his  own 
rank,  and  the  contrast  of  the  whole  to  his  common  way  of  life, 
carried  him  away,  and  hopes  and  thoughts  began  to  creep  into 
his  head  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger.  Mary  did  her 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  479 

very  best  to  make  his  visit  pleasant  to  him.  She  had  a  great 
respect  for  the  self-denying  life  which  she  knew  he  was  lend- 
ing ;  and  the  nervousness  and  shyness  of  his  manners  were  of 
a  kind,  which,  instead  of  infecting  her,  gave  her  confidence, 
and  made  her  feel  quite  at  her  ease  with  him.  She  was  so 
grateful  to  him  for  having  delivered  her  out  of  her  recent  em- 
barrassment, that  she  was  more  than  usually  kind  in  her 
manner 

She  saw  how  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  thought  what 
good  it  must  do  him  to  forget  his  usual  occupations  for  a  short 
time.  So  she  talked  positive  gossip  to  him,  asked  his  opinion 
on  riding-habits,  and  very  soon  was  telling  him  the  plot  of  a 
new  novel  which  she  had  just  been  reading,  with  an  animation 
and  playfulness  which  would  have  warmed  the  heart  of  an 
anchorite.  For  a  short  quarter  of  an  hour  Grey  resigned 
himself ;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  became  suddenly  and 
painfully  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  and  stopped  himself 
short  in  the  middle  of  an  altogether  worldly  compliment,  which 
he  detected  himself  in  the  act  of  paying  to  his  too  fascinating 
young  hostess.  He  felt  that  retreat  was  his  only  chance,  and 
so  grasped  his  hat  again,  and  rose  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  sud- 
den change  of  manner  which  alarmed  Mary. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Grey,"  she  said,  anxiously,  "I  hope  you  are 
not  ill?" 

"No,  not  the  least,  thank  you.  But — but — in  short,  I  must 
go  to  my  work.  I  ought  to  apologize,  indeed,  for  having 
stayed  so  long." 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  been  here  more  than  twenty  minutes. 
Pray  stay,  and  see  mamma ;  she  must  be  in  directly." 

"  Thank  you ;  you  are  very  kind.  I  should  like  it  very 
much,  but  indeed,  I  cannot." 

Mary  felt  that  it  would  be  no  kindness  to  press  it  further, 
and  so  rose  herself,  and  held  out  her  hand.  Grey  took  it,  and 
it  is  not  quite  certain  to  this  day  whether  he  did  not  press  it  in 
that  farewell  shake  more  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  If  h<* 
did,  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  he  administered  exemplary 
punishment  to  himself  afterwards  for  so  doing.  He  would 
gladly  have  left  now,  but  his  over-sensitive  conscience  forbade 
it.  He  had  forgotten  his  office,  he  thought,  hitherto,  but 
there  was  time  yet  not  to  be  altogether  false  to  it.  So  he 
looked  grave  and  shy  again,  and  said, — 

u  You  will  not  be  offended  with  me,  Miss  Porter,  if  I  speak 
to  you  as  a  clergyman  ?  " 

Mary  was  a  little  disconcerted,  but  answered  almost  im- 
mediately,— 


480  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"Oh,  no.  Pray  say  anything  which  you  think  you  ought  to 
say." 

"I  am  afraid  there  must  be  a  great  temptation  in  living 
always  in  beautiful  rooms  like  this,  with  no  one  but  prosperous 
people.  Do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

"But  one  cannot  help  it.  Surely,  Mr.  Grey,  you  do  not 
think  it  can  be  wrong?  " 

"No,  not  wrong.  But  it  must  be  very  trying.  It  must  be 
very  necessary  to  do  something  to  lessen  the  temptation  of 
such  a  life." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.     What  could  one  do  ?  " 

"Might  you  not  take  up  some  work  which  would  not  be 
pleasant,  such  as  visiting  the  poor?" 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  ;  but  we  do  not  know  any  poor  peo- 
ple in  London." 

"  There  are  very  miserable  districts  near  here." 

"Yes,  and  papa  and  mamma  are  very  kind,  I  know,  in  help- 
ing whenever  they  can  hear  of  a  proper  case.  But  it  is  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  country.  There  it  is  so  easy  and  pleasant  to 
go  into  the  cottages  where  every  one  knows  you,  and  most  of 
the  people  work  for  papa,  and  one  is  sure  of  being  welcomed, 
and  that  nobody  will  be  rude.  But  here  I  should  be  afraid. 
It  would  seem  so  impertinent  to  go  to  people's  houses  of  whom 
one  knows  nothing.  I  should  never  know  what  to  say." 

"It  is  not  easy  or  pleasant  duty  which  is  the  best  for  us. 
Great  cities  could  never  be  evangelized,  Miss  Porter,  if  all 
ladies  thought  as  you  do." 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Grey,"  said  Mary,  rather  nettled,  "  that  every 
one  has  not  the  gift  of  lecturing  the  poor,  and  setting  them 
right ;  and,  if  they  have  not,  they  had  better  not  try  to  do  it. 
And  as  for  all  the  rest,  there  is  plenty  of  the  same  kind  of 
work  to  be  done,  I  believe,  amongst  the  people  of  one's  own 
class. 

"  You  are  joking,  Miss  Porter." 

"No,  I  am  not  joking  at  all.  I  believe  that  rich  people  are 
quite  as  unhappy  as  poor.  Their  troubles  are  not  the  same, 
of  course,  and  are  generally  of  their  own  making.  But  troubles 
of  the  mind  are  worse,  surely,  than  troubles  of  the  body?" 

"Certainly;  and  it  is  the  highest  work  of  the  ministry  to 
deal  with  spiritual  trials.  But,  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying 
that  I  cannot  think  this  is  the  proper  work  for — for — " 

"  For  me,  you  would  say.  We  must  be  speaking  of  quite 
different  things,  I  am  sure.  I  only  mean  that  I  can  listen  to 
the  troubles  and  grievances  of  any  one  who  likes  to  talk  of 
them  to  me,  and  try  to  comfort  them  a  little,  and  to  make 


AFTEltNOON  VISITORS.  481 

things  look  brighter,  and  to  keep  cheerful.  It  is  not  easy 
always  even  to  do  this." 

"  It  is  not,  indeed.  But  would  it  not  be  easier  if  you  could 
do  as  I  suggest  ?  Going  out  of  one's  own  class,  and  trying  to 
care  for  and  to  help  the  poor,  braces  the  mind  more  than  any- 
thing else." 

"  You  ought  to  know  my  Cousin  Katie,"  said  Mary,  glad  to 
make  a  diversion  ;  "that  is  just  what  she  would  say.  Indeed, 
I  think  you  must  have  seen  her  at  Oxford ;  did  you  not?  " 

"  I  believe  I  had  the  honor  of  meeting  her  at  the  rooms  of  a 
friend,  I  think  he  said  she  was  also  a  cousin  of  his." 

"Mr.  Brown,  you  mean?    Yes;  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  You  will  think  it  strange,  as  we  are  so  very  un- 
like ;  but  I  knew  him  better  than  I  knew  almost  any  one." 

"  Poor  Katie  is  very  anxious  about  him.  I  hope  you 
thought  well  of  him.  You  do  not  think  he  is  likely  to  go  very 
wrong  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  could  wish  he  were  sounder  on  Church 
questions,  but  that  may  come.  Do  you  know  that  he  is  in 
London?" 

"  I  had  heard  so." 

"  He  has  been  several  times  to  my  schools.  He  used  to  help 
me  at  Oxford,  and  has  a  capital  way  with  the  boys." 

At  this  moment  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  a  quarter. 
The  sound  touched  some  chord  in  Grey  which  made  him  grasp 
his  hat  again,  and  prepare  for  another  attempt  to  get  away. 

"  I  hope  you  will  pardon — "  He  pulled  himself  up  short, 
in  the  fear  lest  he  were  going  again  to  be  false  (as  he  deemed 
it)  to  his  calling,  and  stood  the  picture  of  nervous  discomfort. 

Mary  came  to  his  relief.  "  I  am  sorry  you  must  go,  Mr. 
Grey,"  she  said  ;  "  I  should  so  like  to  have  talked  to  you  more 
about  Oxford.  You  will  call  again,  soon,  I  hope  ?  " 

At  which  last  speech  Grey,  casting  an  imploring  glance  at 
her,  muttered  something  which  she  could  not  catch,  and  fled 
from  the  room. 

Mary  stood  looking  dreamily  out  of  the  window  for  a  few 
minutes,  till  the  entrance  of  her  mother  roused  her,  and  she 
turned  to  pour  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  her. 

"  It  is  cold,  mamma  dear ;  do  let  me  make  some  fresh." 

"No,  thank  you,  dear;  this  will  do  very  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Porter;  and  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and  sipped  the  cold  tea. 
Mary  watched  her  silently  for  a  minute,  and  then,  taking  the 
letter  she  had  been  reading,  out  of  her  pocket,  said, — 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Katie,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Porter  took  the  letter  and  read  it ;  and,  as  Mary  still 


482  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

watched,  she  saw  a  puzzled  look  coming  over  her  mother's  face. 
Mrs.  Porter  finished  the  letter,  and  then  looked  stealthily  at 
Mary,  who  on  her  side  was  now  busily  engaged  in  putting  up 
the  tea-things. 

"  It  is  very  embarrassing,"  said  Mrs.  Porter. 

"What,  mamma?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  my  dear,  I  mean  of  Katie's  telling  us  of  her 
cousin's  being  in  London,  and  sending  us  his  address — "  and 
then  she  paused. 

"Why,  mamma?" 

"Your  papa  will  have  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  will 
ask  him  to  the  house.  Katie  would  surely  never  have  told  him 
that  she  has  written." 

"Mr.  ancl  Mrs.  Brown  were  so  very  kind.  It  would  seem  so 
strange,  so  ungrateful,  not  even  to  ask  him." 

"I  am  afraid  he  is  not  the  sort  of  young  man — in  short,  I 
must  speak  to  your  papa." 

Mrs.  Porter  looked  hard  at  her  daughter,  who  was  still  busied 
with  the  tea-things.  She  had  risen,  bonnet  in  hand,  to  leave 
the  room ;  but  now  changed  her  mind,  and,  crossing  to  her 
daughter,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck.  Mary  looked  up  stead- 
ily into  her  eyes,  then  blushed  slightly,  and  said,  quietly, — 

"  No,  mamma ;  indeed  it  is  not  as  you  think." 

Her  mother  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room,  tell- 
ing her  to  get  dressed,  as  the  carriage  would  be  round  in  a  few 
minutes. 

Her  trials  for  the  day  were  not  over.  She  could  see  by  their 
manner  at  dinner  that  her  father  and  mother  had  been  talking 
about  her.  Her  father  took  her  to  a  ball  in  the  evening,  where 
they  met  St.  Cloud,  who  fastened  himself  to  them.  She  was 
dancing  a  quadrille,  and  her  father  stood  near  her,  talking  con- 
fidentially to  St.  Cloud.  In  the  intervals  of  the  dance  scraps 
of  their  conversation  reached  her. 

"  You  knew  him,  then,  at  Oxford  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  slightly." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  now,  as  a  friend — "  Here  Mary's 
partner  reminded  her  that  she  ought  to  be  dancing.  When 
she  had  returned  to  her  place  again  she  heard — 

"  You  think,  then,  that  it  was  a  bad  business  ?  " 

"  It  was  notorious  in  the  college.  We  never  had  any  doubt 
on  the  subject." 

"  My  niece  has  told  Mrs.  Porter  that  there  really  was  noth- 
ing wrong  in  it." 

"  Indeed  ?     I  am  happy  to  hear  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  think  well  of  him,  as  he  is  a  connection  of 


AFTERNOON  VISITORS.  483 

my  wife.  In  other  respects  now — "  Here  again  she  was  car- 
ried away  by  the  dance,  and,  when  she  returned,  caught  the 
end  of  a  sentence  of  St.  Cloud's,  "  You  will  consider  what  I 
have  said  in  confidence." 

"Certainly,"  answered  Mr.  Porter;  "and  I  am  exceedingly 
obliged  to  you;"  and  then  the  dance  was  over,  and  Mary  re- 
turned to  her  father's  side.  She  had  never  enjoyed  a  ball  less 
than  this,  and  persuaded  her  father  to  leave  early,  which  he 
was  delighted  to  do. 

"When  she  reached  her  own  room  Mary  took  off  her  wreath 
and  ornaments,  and  then  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  brown  study, 
which  lasted  for  some  time.  At  last  she  roused  herself  with  a 
sigh,  and  thought  she  had  never  had  so  tiring  a  day,  though 
she  could  hardly  tell  why,  and  felt  half  inclined  to  have  a  good 
cry,  if  she  could  only  have  made  up  her  mind  what  about. 
However,  being  a  sensible  young  woman,  she  resisted  the  temp- 
tation, and,  hardly  taking  the  trouble  to  roll  up  her  haic.  v-eat 
to  bed  and  slept  soundly. 

Mr.  Porter  found  his  wife  sitting  up  for  him  ;  they  were  evi» 
dently  both  full  of  the  same  subject. 

"Well,  dear?"  she  said,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

Mr.  Porter  put  down  his  candle,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  don't  think  Katie  can  be  right,  then  ?  She  must  have 
capital  opportunities  of  judging,  you  know,  dear." 

"  But  she  is  no  judge.  What  can  a  girl  like  Katie  know 
about  such  things  ?  " 

•'  Well,  dear,  do  you  know  I  really  cannot  think  there  was 
anything  very  wrong,  though  I  did  think  so  at  first  I  own." 

"But  I  find  that  his  character  was  bad — decidedly  bad — al- 
ways. Young  St.  Cloud  didn't  like  to  say  much  tome;  which 
was  natural,  tff  course.  Young  men  never  like  to  betray  one 
another:  but  I  could  see  what  he  thought.  He  is  a  right- 
minded  young  man,  and  very  agreeable." 

"  I  do  not  take  to  him  very  much." 

"  His  connections  and  prospects,  too.  ar<a  capital.  I  some- 
times think  he  has  a  fancy  for  Mary.  Haven't  you  remarked 
it?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  as  to  the  other  matter  ?  Shall  you  ask 
him  here?" 

"  Well,  dear,  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  need.  He  is  only 
in  town,  I  suppose,  for  a  short  time,  and  it  is  not  at  all  likely 
that  we  should  know  where  he  is,  you  see." 

"But  if  he  should  call?" 

"  Of  course  then  we  must  be  civil.  We  can  consider  then 
what  is  to  be  done." 


484  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

CHAPTER  XXL 

THE    INTERCEPTED   LETTEB-BAG. 

**  DEAB  KATIE, — At  home,  you  see,  without  having  answered 
your  last  kind  letter  of  counsel  and  sympathy.  But  I  couldn't 
write  in  town,  I  was  in  such  a  queer  state  all  the  time.  1  en- 
joyed nothing,  not  even  the  match  at  Lords,  or  the  race ;  only 
walking  at  night  in  the  square,  and  watching  her  window,  and 
seeing  her  at  a  distance  in  Rotten  Row. 

"  I  followed  your  advice  at  last,  though  it  went  against  the 
grain  uncommonly.  It  did  seem  so  unlike  what  I  had  a  right 
to  expect  from  them — after  all  the  kindness  my  father  and 
mother  had  shown  them  when  they  came  into  our  neighbor- 
hood, and  after  I  had  been  so  intimate  there,  running  in  and 
out  just  like  a  son  of  their  own — that  they  shouldn't  take  the 
slightest  notice  of  me  all  the  time  I  was  in  London.  I  shouldn't 
have  wondered  if  you  hadn't  explained ;  but  after  that,  and 
after  you  had  told  them  my  direction,  and  when  they  knew 
that  I  was  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  their  house  constant- 
ly (for  they  knew  all  about  Grey's  schools,  and  that  I  was  there 
three  or  four  times  a  week),  I  do  think  it  Was  too  bad.  How- 
ever, as  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  I  went  at  last,  for  I  couldn't 
Jeave  town  without  trying  to  see  her ;  and  I  believe  I  have  finish- 
ed it  all  off.  I  don't  know.  I'm  very  low  about  it,  at  any  rate, 
and  want  to  tell  you  all  that  passed,  and  to  hear  what  you 
think.  I  have  no  one  to  consult  but  you,  Katie.  What  should 
I  do  without  you?  But  you  were  born  to  help  and  comfort 
all  the  world.  I  sha'n't  rest  till  I  know  what  you  think  about 
this  last  crisis  in  my  history.  . 

"I  put  off  going  till  my  last  day  in  town,  and  then  called 
twice.  The  first  time,  t  not  at  home.'  But  I  was  determined 
now  to  see  somebody,  and  make  out  something ;  so  I  left  my 
card,  and  a  message  that,  as  I  was  leaving  town  next  day,  I 
would  call  again.  When  I  called  again  at  about  six  o'clock,  I 
was  shown  into  the  library,  and  presently  your  uncle  came  in. 
I  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  I  think  he  did  too ;  but  he 
shook  hands  cordially  enough,  asked  why  I  had  not  called  be- 
fore, and  said  he  was  sorry  to  hear  I  was  going  out  of  town  so 
soon.  Do  you  believe  he  meant  it  ?  I  didn't.  But  it  put  me 
out,  because  it  made  it  look  as  if  it  had  been  my  fault  that  I 
hadn't  been  there  before.  I  said  I  didn't  know  that  he  would 
have  liked  me  to  call,  but  I  felt  that  he  had  got  the  best  of  the 
start. 

"  Then  he  asked  after  all  at  home,  and  talked  of  his  boys, 
and  how  they  were  getting  on  at  school.  By  this  time  I  had 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-HAG.  485 

got  my  head  again ;  so  I  went  back  to  my  calling,  and  said 
that  I  had  felt  1  could  never  come  to  their  house  as  a  common 
acquaintance,  and,  as  I  did  not  know  whether  they  would  ever 
let  me  come  in  any  other  capacity,  I  had  kept  away  till  now. 

"Your  uncle  didn't  like  it,  I  know;  for  he  got  up  and 
walked  about,  and  then  said  he  didn't  understand  me.  Well, 
I  had  got  quite  reckless  by  this  time.  It  was  my  last  chance 
I  felt ;  so  I  looked  hard  into  my  hat,  and  said  that  I  had  been 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Mary  for  two  years.  Of  course 
there  was  no  getting  out  of  the  business  after  that.  I  kept  on 
staring  into  ray  hat ;  so  I  don't  know  how  he  took  it;  but  the 
first  thing  he  said  was  that  he  had  some  suspicions  of  this,  and 
now  my  confession  gave  him  a  right  to  ask  me  several  ques- 
tions. In  the  first  place,  Had  I  ever  spoken  to  her?  No: 
never  directly.  What  did  I  mean  by  directly  ?  I  meant  that 
1  had  never  either  spoken  or  written  to  her  on  the  subject, — in 
fact,  I  hadn't  seen  her,  except  at  at  distance,  for  the  last  two 
years — but  I  could  not  say  that  she  might  not  have  found  it 
out  from  my  manner.  Had  I  ever  told  any  one  else?  No; 
and  this  was  quite  true,  Katie,  for  both  you  and  Hardy  found 
it  out. 

"  He  took  a  good  many  more  turns  before  speaking  again. 
Then  he  said  I  had  acted  as  a  gentleman  hitherto,  and  he 
should  be  very  plain  with  me.  Of  course,  I  must  see  that, 
looking  at  my  prospects  and  his  daughter's,  it  could  not  be  an 
engagement  which  he  could  look  on  with  much  favor  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view.  Nevertheless,  he  had  the  highest 
respect  and  regard  for  my  family,  so  that,  if  in  some  years' 
time  I  was  in  a  position  to  marry,  he  should  not  object  on  this 
score  ;  but  there  were  other  matters  which  were  in  his  eyes  of 
more  importance.  He  had  heard  (who  could  have  told  him  ?) 
that  I  had  taken  up  very  violent  opinions — opinions  which,  to 
say  nothing  more  of  them,  would  very  much  damage  my  pros- 
pects of  success  in  life ;  and  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  associat- 
ing with  the  advocates  of  such  opinions, — persons  who,  he 
must  say,  were  not  fit  companions  for  a  gentleman, — and  of 
writing  violent  articles  in  low  revolutionary  newspapers,  such 
as  the  Wessex  Freeman.  Yes,  I  confessed  I  had  written. 
Would  I  give  up  these  things?  I  had  a  great  mind  to  say 
flat,  No, and  I  believe  I  ought  to  have;  but  as  his  tone  was 
kind  I  couldn't  help  trying  to  meet  him.  So  I  said  I  would  give 
up  writing  or  speaking  publicly  about  such  matters,  but  I 
couldn't  pretend  not  to  believe  what  I  did  believe.  Perhaps, 
as  my  opinions  had  altered  so  much  already,  very  likely  they 
might  again. 


486  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  He  seemed  to  be  rather  amused  at  that,  and  said  he  sin- 
cerely  hoped  they  might.  But  now  came  the  most  serious 
point ;  he  had  heard  very  bad  stories  of  me  at  Oxford,  but  he 
would  not  press  me  with  them.  There  were  too  few  young 
men  whose  lives  would  bear  looking  into  for  him  to  insist  much 
on  such  matters,  and  he  was  ready  to  let  bygones  be  bygones. 
But  I  must  remember  that  he  had  himself  seen  me  in  one  very 
awkward  position.  I  broke  in,  and  said  I  had  hoped  that  had 
been  explained  to  him.  I  could  not  defend  my  Oxford  life ;  1 
could  not  defend  myself  as  to  this  particular  case  at  one  time  ; 
but  there  had  been  nothing  in  it  that  I  was  ashamed  of  since 
before  the  time  I  knew  his  daughter. 

"  On  my  honor  had  I  absolutely  and  entirely  broken  off  all 
relations  with  her?  He  had  been  told  that  I  still  kept  up  a 
correspondence  with  her. 

"  Yes,  I  still  wrote  to  her,  and  saw  her  occasionally ;  but  it 
was  only  to  give  her  news  of  a  young  man  from  her  village, 
who  was  now  serving  in  India.  He  had  no  other  way  of  com- 
municating with  her. 

"  It  was  a  most  curious  arrangement;  did  I  mean  that  this 
young  man  was  going  to  be  married  to  her  ? 

"I  hoped  so. 

"  Why  should  he  not  write  to  her  at  once  if  they  were  en- 
gaged to  be  married  ? 

"  They  were  not  exactly  engaged ;  it  was  rather  hard  to  ex- 
plain. Here  your  uncle  seemed  to  lose  patience,  for  he  inter- 
rupted me  and  said,  Really,  it  must  be  clear  to  me,  as  a  reason- 
able man,  that,  if  this  connection  were  not  absolutely  broken 
off,  there  must  be  an  end  of  everything,  so  far  as  his  daughter 
was  concerned.  Would  I  give  my  word  of  honor  to  break  it 
off  at  once,  and  completely"?  I  tried  to  explain  again  ;  but  ho 
would  have  nothing  but  yes  or  no.  Dear  Katie,  what  could  I 
do  ?  I  have  written  to  Patty  that,  till  I  die,  she  may  always 
reckon  on  me  as  on  a  brother ,  and  I  have  promised  Harry 
never  to  lose  sight  of  her,  and  to  let  her  know  everything  that 
happens  to  him.  Your  uncle  would  not  hear  me  ;  so  I  said,  No. 
And  he  said,  '  Then  our  interview  had  better  end,'  and  rang 
the  bell.  Somebody,  I'm  sure,  has  been  slandering  me  to  him ; 
who  can  it  be  ? 

"I  didn't  say  another  word,  or  offer  to  shake  hands,  but  got 
up  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  as  it  was  no  good  waiting  for 
the  servant  to  come.  When  I  got  into  the  hall  the  front  door 
was  open,  and  I  heard  her  voice.  I  stopped  dead  short.  She 
was  saying  something  to  some  people  who  had  been  riding  with 
her.  The  next  moment  the  door  shut,  and  she  tripped  in  in  her 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-BAG.  487 

riding-habit,  and  gray  gloves,  and  bat,  with  the  dearest  little 
gray  plume  in  it.  She  went  humming  along,  and  up  six  or  eight 
steps,  without  seeing  me.  Then  I  moved  a  step,  and  ishe 
stopped  and  looked  and  gave  a  start.  1  don't  know  whether 
my  face  was  awfully  miserable,  but,  when  our  eyes  met,  hers 
seemed  to  fill  with  pity  and  uneasiness  and  inquiry,  and  the 
bright  look  to  melt  away  altogether,  and  then  she  blushed,  and 
ran  down-stairs  again,  and  held,  out  her  hand,  saying,  '  I  am  so 
clad  to  see  you,  after  all  this  long  time.'  I  pressed  it,  but  I 
don't  think  I  said  anything.  I  forget ;  the  butler  came  into 
the  hall,  and  stood  by  the  door.  She  paused  another  moment, 
looked  confused,  and  then,  as  the  library  door  opened,  went 
away  up-stairs,  with  a  kind  '  good-by.'  She  dropped  a  little 
bunch  of  violets,  which  she  had  worn  in  the  breast  of  her  hab- 
it, as  she  went  away.  I  went  and  picked  them  up,  although 
your  uncle  had  now  come  out  of  the  library,  and  then  made 
the  best  of  my  way  into  the  street. 

"There,  Katie,  I  have  told  you  everything,  exactly  as  it 
happened.  Do  write  to  me,  dear,  and  tell  me,  now,  what  you 
think.  Is  it  all  over?  What  can  I  do?  Can  you  do  anything 
for  me  ?  I  feel  it  is  better  in  one  respect.  Her  father  can 
never  say  now  that  I  didn't  tell  him  all  about  it.  But  what  is  to 
happen  ?  I  am  so  restless.  I  can  settle  to  nothing,  and  do  no- 
thing but  fish.  I  moon  away  all  my  time  by  the  water-side, 
dreaming.  But  I  don't  mean  to  let  it  beat  me  much  longer. 
Here's  the  fourth  day  since  I  saw  her.  I  came  away  the  next 
morning.  I  shall  give  myself  a  week;  and,  dear,  do  write  me 
a  long  letter  at  once,  and  interpret  it  all  to  me.  A  woman  knows 
so  wonderfully  what  things  mean.  But  don't  make  it  out  better 
than  you  really  think.  Nobody  can  stop  my  going  on  loving  her, 
that's  a  comfort ;  and  while  I  can  do  that,  and  don't  know  that 
she  loves  anybody  else,  I  ought  to  be  happier  than  any  other  man 
in  the  world.  Yes,  I  ought  to  be,  but  I  ain't.  I  will  be,  though 
see  if  I  won't.  Heigho !  Do  write  directly,  my  dear  counsellor, 
to  your  affectionate  cousin, 

"  T.  B. 

"  P.S. — I  had  almost  forgotten  my  usual  budget.  I  enclose 
my  last  from  India.  You  will  see  by  it  that  Harry  is  getting 
on  famously.  I  am  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you  that  my 
friend  East  has  taken  him  as  his  servant.  He  couldn't  be  under 
a  better  master.  Poor  Harry  !  I  sometimes  think  his  case  is 
more  hopeless  than  my  own.  How  is  it  to  come  right?  or 
mine?" 

"  JEngleboum. 

"  DEAB  COUSIN, — You  will  believe  how  I  devoured  your 


488  TOM  EEOWX  AT  OXFORD. 

letter  ;  though,  when  I  had  read  the  first  few  lines,  and  saw 
what  was  coming,  it  made  me  stop  and  tremble.  At  first  1 
could  have  cried  over  it  for  vexation  ;  but,  now  I  have  thought 
about  it  a  little,  I  really  do  not  see  any  reason  to  be  discouraged 
At  any  rate,  Uncle  Robert  now  knows  all  about  it,  and  will 
get  used  to  the  idea,  and  Mary  seems  to  have  received  you  just 
as  you  ought  to  have  wished  that  she  should.  I  am  thankful 
that  you  have  left  off  pressing  me  to  write  to  her  about  you,  for 
I  am  sure  that  would  not  be  honorable  ;  and,  to  reward  you,  I 
enclose  a  letter  of  hers,  which  came  yesterday.  You  will  see 
that  she  speaks  with  such  pleasure  of  having  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  you,  that  you  need  not  regret  the  shortness  of  the 
interview.  You  could  not  expect  her  to  say  more,  because, 
after  all,  she  can  only  guess  ;  and  I  cannot  do  more  than  an- 
swer as  if  I  were  quite  innocent  too.  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
very  thankful  to  me  some  day  for  not  having  been  your  mouth- 
piece, as  I  was  so  very  near  being.  You  need  not  return  the 
letter.  I  suppose  I  am  getting  more  hopeful  as  I  grow  older 
— indeed,  I  am  sure  I  am  ;  for  three  or  four  years  ago  I  should 
have  been  in  despair  about  you,  and  now  I  am  nearly  sure  that 
all  will  come  right. 

"  But,  indeed,  Cousin  Tom,  you  cannot,  or  ought  not,  to 
wonder  at  Uncle  Robert's  objecting  to  your  opinions.  And 
then  I  am  so  surprised  to  find  you  saying  that  you  think  you 
may  very  likely  change  them.  Because,  if  that  is  the  case,  it 
would  be  so  much  better  if  you  would  not  write  and  talk  about 
them.  Unless  you  are  quite  convinced  of  such  things  as  you 
write  in  that  dreadful  paper,  you  really  ought  not  to  go  on  writ- 
ing them  so  very  much  as  if  you  believed  them. 

"  And  now  I  am  speaking  to  you  about  this,  which  I  have 
often  had  on  my  mind  to  speak  to  you  about,  I  must  ask  you 
not  to  send  me  that  Wessex  Freeman  any  more.  I  am  always 
delighted  to  hear  what  you  think  ;  and  there  is  a  great  deal  in 
the  articles  you  mark  for  me  which  seems  very  fine  ;  and  I 
dare  say  you  quite  believe  it  all  when  you  write  it.  Only  I  am 
quite  afraid  lest  papa  or  any  of  the  servants  should  open  the 
papers,  or  get  hold  of  them  after  I  have  opened  them  ;  for  I  am 
sure  there  are  a  great  many  wicked  things  in  the  other  parts  of 
the  paper.  So,  please  do  not  send  it  me,  but  write  and  tell  me 
yourself  anything  that  you  wish  me  to  know  of  what  you  are 
thinking  about  and  doing.  As  I  did  not  like  to  burn  the  papers 
and  was  afraid  to  keep  them  here,  I  have  generally  sent  them 
on  to  your  friend,  Mr.  Hardy.  He  does  not  know  who  sends 
them  ;  and  now  you  might  send  them  yourself  straight  to  him 
as  I  do  not  know  his  address  in  the  country.  .  As  you  are  going 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-BAG.  489 

up  again  to  keep  a  term,  I  wish  you  would  talk  them  over  with 
him,  and  see  what  he  thinks  about  them.  You  will  think  this 
very  odd  of  me,  but  you  know  you  have  always  said  how  much 
you  rely  on  his  judgment,  and  that  you  have  learned  so  much 
from  him.  So  I  am  sure  you  would  wish  to  consult  him ;  and 
if  he  thinks  you  ought  to  go  on  writing,  it  will  be  a  great  help 
to  you  to  know  it. 

"  I  am  so  very  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  how  well  Martha 
is  going  on.  I  have  always  read  to  her  the  extracts  from  your 
letters  from  India  which  you  have  sent  me,  and  she  is  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  them-  I  think  there  is  no 
doubt  that  she  is,  and  always  has  been,  attached  to  poor  Widow 
Winburn's  son,  and,  now  that  he  is  behaving  so  well,  I  can, 
see  that  it  gives  her  great  pleasure  to  hear  about  him.  Only, 
I  hope,  he  will  be  able  to  come  back  before  very  long,  because 
she  is  very  much  admired,  and  is  likely  to  have  so  many 
chances  of  settling  in  life,  that  it  is  a  great  chance  whether  her 
attachment  to  him  will  be  strong  enough  to  keep  her  single  if 
he  should  be  absent  for  many  years. 

"  Do  you  know  I  have  a  sort  of  superstition,  that  your  fate 
hangs  upon  theirs  in  some  curious  manner, — the  two  stories 
have  been  so  interwoven, — and  that  they  will  both  be  settled 
happily  much  sooner  than  we  dare  to  hope  even  just  now? 

"  Don't  think,  my  dear  cousin,  that  this  letter  is  cold,  or  that 
I  do  not  take  the  very  deepest  interest  in  all  that  concerns 
you.  You  and  Mary  are  always  in  my  thoughts,  and  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  for  you  both  which  I 
thought  would  help  you.  I  am  sure  it  would  do  you  harm  to 
be  only  a  go-between.  Papa  is  much  as  usual.  He  gets  out  a 
good  deal  in  his  chair  in  the  sun  this  fine  weather.  He  desires 
me  to  say  how  glad  he  should  be  if  you  will  come  over  soon 
and  pay  us  a  visit.  I  hope  you  will  come  very  soon. 
»  "  Ever  believe  me,  dear  Tom, 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"KATIE." 

"  November. 

"  DEAR  TOM, — I  hear  that  what  you  in  England  call  a  mail 
is  to  leave  camp  this  evening  ;  so  that  you  may  have  no  excuse 
for  not  writing  to  me  constantly,  I  am  setting  to  spin  you  such 
a  yarn  as  I  can  under  the  disadvantageous  circumstances  in 
which  this  will  leave  me. 

"  This  time  last  year,  or  somewhere  thereabouts,  I  was  en- 
joying academic  life  with  you  at  Oxford  ;  and  now  here  I  am, 
encamped  at  some  unpronounceable  place  beyond  Umbala. 


490  TOM  SHOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

You  won't  be  much  the  wiser  for  that.  What  do  you  know 
about  Umbala?  I  didn't  myself  know  that  there  was  such  a 
place  till  a  month  ago,  when  we  were  ordered  to  march  up  here, 
But  one  lives  and  learns.  Marching  over  India  has  its  dis- 
agreeables, of  which  dysentery  and  dust  are  about  the  worst. 
A  lot  of  our  fellows  are  down  with  the  former ;  amongst  others 
my  captain ;  so  I'm  in  command  of  the  company.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  glorious  privilege  of  grumbling,  1  think  we  should 
all  own  that  we  liked  the  life.  Moving  about,  though  one  does 
get  frozen  and  broiled  regularly  once  in  the  twenty-four  hours, 
suits  me ;  besides,  they  talk  of  matters  coming  to  a  crisis,  and 
no  end  of  fighting  to  be  done  directly.  You'll  know  more 
about  what's  going  on  from  the  papers  than  we  do,  but  here 
they  say  the  ball  may  begin  any  day ;  so  we  are  making  forced 
marches  to  be  up  in  time.  I  wonder  how  I  shall  like  it.  Per- 
haps, in  my  next,  I  may  tell  you  how  a  bullet  sounds  when  it 
comes  at,  you.  If  there  is  any  fighting,  I  expect  our  regiment 
will  make  their  mark.  We  are  in  tip-top  order;  the  colonel  is 
a  grand  fellow,  and  the  regiment  feels  his  hand,  down  to  the 
youngest  drummer  boy.  What  a  deal  of  good  I  will  do  when 
I'm  a  colonel. 

"  I  duly  delivered  the  enclosure  in  you  last  to  your  convict, 
who  is  rapidly  ascending  the  ladder  of  promotion.  I  am  dis- 
gusted at  this  myself,  for  I  have  had  to  give  him  up,  and  there 
never  was  such  a  jewel  of  a  servant ;  but,  of  course,  it's  a  great 
thing  for  him.  He  is  covering  sergeant  of  my  company,  and 
the  smartest  coverer  we  have  too.  I  have  got  a  regular  broth 
of  a  boy,  an  Irishman,  in  his  place,  who  leads  me  a  dog  of  a  life. 
I  took  him  chiefly  because  he  very  nearly  beat  me  in  a  foot-race. 
Our  senior  major  is  a  Pat  himself,  and,  it  seems,  knew  some- 
thing of  Larry's  powers.  So,  one  day  at  mess,  he  offered  to  back 
him  against  any  one  in  the  regiment  for  two  hundred  yards. 
My  captain  took  him  and  named  me,  and  it  came  off  next  day ; 
and  a  precious  narrow  thing  it  was,  but  I  managed  to  win  by  a 
neck  for  the  honor  of  the  old  school.  He  is  a  lazy  scatter- 
brained creature,  utterly  indifferent  to  fact,  and  I  am  obliged  to 
keep  the  brandy  flask  under  lock  and  key;  but  the  humor  and 
absolute  good  temper  of  the  animal  impose  upon  me,  and  I 
really  think  he  is  attached  to  me.  So  I  keep  him  on,  grum- 
bling horribly  at  the  change  from  that  orderly,  punctual,  clean, 
accurate  convict.  Depend  upon  it,  that  fellow  will  do.  He 
makes  his  way  everywhere,  with  officers  and  men.  He  is  a 
gentleman  at  heart,  and,  by  the  way,  you  would  be  surprised 
at  the  improvement  in  his  manners  and  speech.  There  is  hardly 
a  taste  of  Berkshire  left  in  his  deealect.  He  has  read  all  the 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-BAG.  491 

books  I  could  lend  him,  or  borrow  for  him,  and  is  fast  picking 
up  Hindustanee.  So  you  see,  after  all,  I  am  come  round  to 
your  opinion  that  we  did  a  good  afternoon's  work  on  that  pre- 
cious stormy  common,  when  we  carried  off  the  convict  from 
the  authorities  of  his  native  land,  and  I  was  first  under  fire. 
As  you  are  a  performer  in  that  line,  couldn't  you  carry  off  his 
sweetheart,  and  send  her  out  here  ?  After  the  sea  voyage  there 
isn't  much  above  one  thousand  miles  to  come  by  dauk ;  and 
tell  her,  with  my  compliments,  he  is  well  worth  coming  twice 
the  distance  for.  Poor  fellow,  it  is  a  bad  look-out  for  him  I'm 
afraid,  as  he  may  not  get  home  this  ten  years ;  and,  though  he 
isn't  a  kind  to  be  easily  killed,  there  are  serious  odds  against 
him,  even  if  he  keeps  all  right.  I  almost  wish  you  had  never 
told  me  his  story. 

"  We  are  going  into  cantonments  as  soon  as  this  expedition 
is  over,  in  a  splendid  pig  district,  and  I  look  forward  to  some 
real  sport.  All  the  men  who  have  had  any  tell  me  it  beats  the 
best  fox-hunt  all  to  fits  for  excitement.  I  have  got  my  eye  on 
a  famous  Arab,  who  is  to  be  had  cheap.  The  brute  is  in  the 
habit  of  kneeling  on  his  masters,  and  tearing  them  with  his 
teeth  when  he  gets  them  off,  but  nothing  can  touch  him  while 
you  keep  on  his  back.  Howsumdever,  as  your  countrymen  say, 
I  shall  have  a  shy  at  him,  if  I  can  get  him  at  my  price.  I've 
nothing  more  to  say.  There's  nobody  you  know  here,  except 
the  convict  sergeant,  and  it's  awfully  hard  to  fill  a  letter  home 
unless  you've  somebody  to  talk  about.  Yes,  by  the  way,  there 
is  one  little  fellow,  an  ensign,  just  joined,  who  says  he  remem- 
bers us  at  school.  He  can't  be  more  than  eighteen  or  nineteen, 
and  was  an  urchin  in  the  lower  school,  I  suppose,  when  we 
were  leaving.  I  don't  remember  his  face,  but  it's  a  very  good 
one,  and  he  is  a  bright,  gentlemanly  youngster  as  you  would 
wish  to  see.  His  name  is  Jones.  Do  you  remember  him  ?  He 
will  be  a  godsend  to  me.  I  have  him  to  chum  with  me  on  this 
march. 

"  Keep  up  your  letters  as  you  love  me.  You  at  home  little 
know  what  it  is  to  enjoy  a  letter.  Never  mind  what  you  put 
in  it ;  anything  will  do  from  home,  and  I've  nobody  else  much 
to  write  to  me. 

"There  goes  the  'assembly.'  Why,  I  can't  think,  seeing  we 
have  done  our  day's  march.  However,  I  must  turn  out  and 

see  what's  up. 

********** 

"  December. 

"I  have  just  fallen  on  this  letter,  which  I  had  quite  forgot- 
ten, or,  rather,  had  fancied  I  had  sent  off  to  you  three  weeks 


4if2  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

and  more  ago.  My  baggage  has  just  come  to  Laud,  and  the 
scrawl  turned  up  in  my  paper  case.  Well,  I  have  plenty  to 
tell  you  now,  at  any  rate,  if  I  had  time  to  tell  it.  That 
*  assembly '  which  stopped  me  short  sounded  in  consequence 
of  the  arrival  of  one  of  the  commander-in-chief's  aides  in  our 
camp,  with  the  news  that  the  enemy  was  over  the  Sutlej.  We 
were  to  march  at  once,  with  two  six-pounders  and  a  squadron 
of  cavalry,  on  a  fort  occupied  by  an  outlying  lot  of  them,  which 
commanded  a  ford,  and  was  to  be  taken  and  destroyed,  and 
the  rascals  who  held  it  dispersed ;  after  which  we  were  to  join 
the  main  army.  Our  colonel  had  the  command ;  so  we  were 
on  the  route  within  an  hour,  leaving  a  company  and  the  bag- 
gage to  follow  as  it  could  ;  and  from  that  time  to  this,  forced 
marching  and  hard  fighting  have  been  the  order  of  the  day. 

"We  drew  first  blood  next  morning.  The  enemy  were  in 
some  force  outside  the  fort,  and  showed  fight  in  very  rough 
ground  covered  with  bushes ;  out  of  which  we  had  to  drive 
them — which  we  did  after  a  sharp  struggle,  and  the  main  body 
drew  off  altogether.  Then  the  fort  had  to  be  taken.  Our  two 
guns  worked  away  at  it  till  dark.  In  the  night  two  of  the  gun- 
ners, who  volunteered  for  the  service,  crept  close  up  to  the 
place,  and  reported  that  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  our  run- 
ping  right  into  it.  Accordingly,  the  colonel  resolved  to  rush 
it  at  daybreak,  and  my  company  was  told  off  to  lead.  The 
captain  being  absent,  I  had  to  command.  I  was  with  the  dear 
old  chief  the  last  thing  at  night,  getting  his  instructions  :  ten 
minutes  with  him  before  going  into  action  would  make  a  hare 
fight. 

"  There  was  cover  to  within  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of 
the  place;  and  there  I,  and  poor  little  Jones,  and  the  men, 
spent  the  night  in  a  dry  ditch.  An  hour  before  daybreak  we 
were  on  the  alert,  and  served  out  rations,  and  then  they  began 
playing  tricks  on  one  another  as  if  we  were  out  for  a  junket- 
ing. I  sat  with  my  watch  in  my  hand,  feeling  queer,  and 
wondering  whether  I  was  a  greater  coward  than  the  rest. 
Then  came  a  streak  of  light.  I  put  up  my  watch,  formed  the 
men ;  up  went  a  rocket,  my  signal,  and  out  into  the  open  we 
went  at  the  double.  We  hadn't  got  over  a  third  of  the  ground 
when  bang  went  the  fort  guns,  and  the  grape  shot  went  whist- 
ling about  our  ears  ;  so  I  shouted  *  Forward  ! '  and  away  we 
went  as  hard  as  we  could  go.  I  was  oblige  i  to  go  ahead,  you 
see,  because  every  man  of  them  knew  I  had  beaten  Larry,  their 
best  runner,  when  he  had  no  gun  to  carry;  but  I  didn't  half 
like  it,  and  should  have  blessed  any  hole  or  bramble  which 
Would  have  sent  me  over  and  given  them  time  to  catch  me. 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-BAG. 

But  the  ground  was  provokingly  level ;  and  so  I  was  at  the 
first  mound  and  over  it  several  lengths  in  front  of  the  men,  and 
among  a  lot  of  black  fellows  serving  the  guns.  They  came  at 
me  like  wild-cats,  and  how  I  got  off  is  a  mystery.  I  parried  a 
cut  from  one  fellow,  and  dodged  a  second ;  a  third  rushed  at 
my  left  side.  I  just  caught  the  flash  of  his  tulwar,  and  thought 
it  was  all  up,  when  he  jumped  into  the  air,  shot  through  the 
heart  by  Sergeant  Winburn;  and  the  next  moment  Master 
Larry  rushed  by  me  and  plunged  his  bayonet  into  my  friend 
m  front.  It  turned  me  as  sick  as  a  dog.  I  can't  fancy  any- 
thing more  disagreeable  than  seeing  the  operation  for  the  first 
time,  except  being  stuck  one's  self.  The  supporting  compa- 
nies were  in  in  another  minute,  with  the  dear  old  chief  himself, 
who  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  said  I  had  done 
credit  to  the  regiment.  Then  I  began  to  look  about,  and 
missed  poor  little  Jones.  We  found  him  about  twenty  yards 
from  the  place,  with  two  grape-shot  through  him,  stone  dead, 
and  smiling  like  a  child  asleep.  We  buried  him  in  the  fort.  I 
cut  off  some  of  his  hair,  and  sent  it  home  to  his  mother.  Her 
last  letter  was  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  a  lock  of  bright  brown 
hair  of  some  one's.  I  sent  them  back,  too,  and  his  sword. 

"  Since  then  we  have  been  with  the  army,  and  had  three  or 
four  general  actions ;  about  which  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  ex- 
cept that  we  have  lost  about  a  third  of  the  regiment,  and  have 
always  been  told  we  have  won.  Steps  go  fast  enough;, my 
captain  died  of  wounds  and  dysentery  a  week  ago ;  so  I  have 
the  company  in  earnest.  How  long  I  shall  hold  it  is  another 
question ;  for,  though  there's  a  slack,  we  haven't  done  with 
sharp  work  yet,  I  can  see. 

"  How  often  we've  talked,  years  ago,  of  what  it  must  feel 
like  going  into  battle  !  Well,  the  chief  thing  I  felt  when  the 
grape  came  down  pretty  thick  for  the  first  time,  as  we  were 
advancing,  was  a  sort  of  gripes  in  the  stomach  which  made  me 
want  to  ge  forward  stooping.  But  I  didn't  give  in  to  it ;  the 
chief  was  riding  close  behind  us,  joking  the  youngsters  who 
were  ducking  their  heads,  and  so  cheery  and  cool,  that  he  made 
old  soldiers  of  us  at  once.  What  with  smoke  and  dust  and 
excitement,  you  know  scarcely  anything  of  what  is  going  on. 
The  finest  sight  I  have  seen  is  the  artillery  going  into  action. 
Nothing  stops  those  fellows.  Places  you  would  crane  at  out 
hunting  they  go  right  over,  guns,  carriages,  men,  and  all, 
leaving  any  cavalry  we've  got  out  here  well  behind.  Do  you 
know  what  a  nullah  is?  Well,  it's  a  great  gap,  like  a  huge 
dry  canal,  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  deep.  We  were  halted  behind 
one  in  the  last  great  fight,  waiting  the  order  to  advance,  when 


494  TOM  BROWX  AT  OXFORD. 

a  battery  came  up  at  full  gallop.  We  all  made  sure  they  must 
be  pulled  up  by  the  nullah.  They  never  pulled  bridle.  '  Leading 
gun,  right  turn  ! '  sang  out  the  subaltern,  and  down  they  went 
sideways  into  the  nullah.  Then,  'Left  turn;'  up  the  other 
bank,  one  gun  after  another,  the  horses  scrambling  like  cats  up 
and  down  places  that  my  men  had  to  use  their  hands  to  scram- 
ble up,  and  away  the  other  side  to  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  enemy ;  and  then,  round  like  lightning,  and  look  out  in 
front. 

"  Altogether  it's  sickening  work,  though  there's  a  grand  sort 
of  feeling  of  carrying  your  life  in  your  hand.  They  say  the 
Sepoy  regiments  have  behaved  shamefully.  There  is  no  sign 
of  anything  like  funk  amongst  our  fellows  that  I  have  seen. 
Sergeant  Winburn  has  distinguished  himself  everywhere.  He 
is  like  my  shadow,  and  I  can  see  tries  to  watch  over  my 
precious  carcase,  and  get  between  me  and  danger.  He  would 
be  a  deal  more  missed  in  the  world  than  I.  Except  you,  old 
friend,  I  don't  know  who  would  care  much  if  I  were  knocked 
over  to-morrow.  Aunts  and  cousins  are  my  nearest  relations. 
You  know  I  never  was  a  snuffler ;  but  this  sort  of  life  makes 
one  serious,  if  one  has  any  reverence  at  all  in  one.  You'll  be 
glad  to  have  this  line,  if  you  don't  hear  from  me  again.  I've 
often  thought  in  the  last  month  that  we  shall  never  see  one 
another  again  in  this  world.  But,  whether  in  this  world  or 
any  other,  you  know  I  am  and  always  shall  be  your  affectionate 
friend,  "H.  EAST." 

"  CAMP    ON    THE    SlJTLEJ, 

"  January, 

^DEAR  MASTER  TOM, — The  captain's  last  words  was,  it 
anything  happened  I  was  to  be  sure  to  write  and  tell  you. 
And  so  I  take  up  my  pen,  though  you  will  know  as  I  am  not 
used  to  writing,  to  tell  you  the  misfortune  as  has  happened  to 
our  regiment.  Because,  if  you  was  to  ask  any  man  in  our 
regiment,  let  it  be  who  it  would,  he  would  say  as  the  captain 
was  the  best  officer  as  ever  led  men.  Not  but  what  there's  a 
many  of  them  as  will  go  to  the  front  as  brave  as  lions,  and 
don't  value  shot  no  more  than  if  it  was  rotten  apples  ;  and  men 
as  is  men  will  go  after  such.  But  'tis  the  captain's  manners 
and  ways,  with  a  kind  word  for  any  poor  fellow  as  is  hurt,  or 
sick  and  tired,  and  making  no  account  of  hisself,  and,  as  you 
may  say,  no  bounce  with  him ;  that's  what  makes  the  dif- 
ference. 

"As  it  might  be  last  Saturday,  we  came  upon  the  enemy 
where  he  was  posted  very  strong,  with  guns  aU  along  his  front, 


TEE  INTE11CBPTED  LETTER-BAG.  495 

and  served  till  we  got  right  up  to  them,  the  gunners  being  cut 
down  and  bayoneted  when  we  got  right  up  amongst  them,  and 
no  quarter  given  ;  and  there  was  great  banks  of  earth,  too,  to 
clamber  over,  and  more  guns  behind ;  so,  with  the  marching 
up  in  front  and  losing  so  many  officers  and  men,  our  regiment 
was  that  wild  when  we  got  amongst  them  'twas  awful  to  see, 
nnd,  if  there  was  any  prisoners  taken,  it  was  more  by  mistake 
than  not. 

"  Me  and  three  or  four  more  settled,  when  the  word  came  to 
prepare  for  action,  to  keep  with  the  captain,  because  'twas 
known  to  every  one  as  no  odds  would  stop  him,  and  he  would 
never  mind  hisself.  The  dust  and  smoke  and  noise  was  that 
thick  you  couldn't  see  nor  hear  anything  after  our  regiment 
was  in  action  ;  but,  so  far  as  I  seen,  when  we  was  wheeled  into 
line,  and  got  the  word  to  advance,  there  was  as  it  might  be  as 
far  as  from  our  old  cottage  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch  to  go  over 
before  we  got  to  the  guns,  which  was  playing  into  us  all  the 
way.  Our  line  went  up  very  steady,  only  where  men  was 
knocked  down;  and,  when  we  come  to  within  a  matter  of 
sixty  yards,  the  officers  jumped  out  and  waved  their  swords, 
for  twas  no  use  to  give  words,  and  the  ranks  was  broken  by 
reason  of  the  running  up  to  take  the  guns  from  the  enemy. 
Me  and  the  rest  went  after  the  captain ;  but  he,  being  so  light 
of  foot,  was  first,  by  maybe  ten  yards  or  so,  at  the  mound,  and 
so  up  before  we  was  by  him.  But,  though  they  was  all  round 
him  like  bees  when  we  got  to  him,  'twas  not  then  as  he  was  hit. 
There  was  more  guns  further  on,  and  we  and  they  drove  on 
altogether ;  and,  though  they  was  beaten,  being  fine  tall  men 
and  desperate,  there  was  many  of  them  fighting  hard,  and,  as 
vo'i  might  say,  a  man  scarcely  knowed  how  he  got  hit.  I  kept 
to  the  captain  as  close  as  ever  I  could,  but  there  was  times 
when  I  had  to  mind  myself.  Just  as  we  come  to  the  last 
guns,  Larry,  Chat's  the  captain's  servant,  was  trying  by  hisself 
to  turn  one  of  them  round,  so  as  to  fire  on  the  enemy  as  they 
took  the  river  to  the  back  of  their  lines  all  in  a  huddle.  So  I 
turned  to  lend  him  a  hand ;  and,  when  I  looked  round  next 
moment,  there  was  the  captain  a  staggering  like  a  drunken 
man,  and  he  so  strong  and  lissom  up  to  then,  and  never  had  a 
scratch  since  the  war  begun,  and  this  the  last  minute  of  it 
pretty  nigh,  for  the  enemy  was  all  cut  to  pieces  and  drowned 
that  day.  I  got  to  him  before  he  fell,  and  we  laid  him  down 
gently,  and  did  the  best  we  could  for  him.  But  he  was  bleed- 
ing dreadful  with  a  great  gash  in  his  side,  and  his  arm  broke, 
and  two  gunshot  wounds.  Our  surgeon  was  killed,  and  'twas 
hours  before  his  wounds  was  dressed,  and  'twill  be  God/;* 


496  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

mercy  if  ever  he  gets  round  ;  though  they  do  say,  if  the  fever 
and  dysentery  keeps  off,  and  he  can  get  out  of  this  country  and 
home,  there's  no  knowing  but  he  may  get  the  better  of  it  all, 
but  not  to  serve  with  the  regiment  again  for  years  to  come. 

"  I  hope,  Master  Tom,  as  I've  told  you  all  the  captain  would 
iike  as  you  should  know ;  only,  not  being  much  used  to  writing, 
I  hope  you  will  excuse  mistakes.  And,  if  so  be  that  it  won*t 
be  too  much  troubling  of  you,  and  the  captain  should  go  home, 
and  you  could  write  to  say  how  things  was  goiug  on  at  home  as 
before,  which  the  captain  always  gave  me  to  read  when  the 
mail  come  in,  it  would  be  a  great  help  towards  keeping  up  of 
a  good  heart  in  a  foreign  land,  which  is  hard  at  times  to  do. 
There  is  some  things  which  I  make  bold  to  send  by  a  comrade 
going  home  sick.  I  don't  know  as  they  will  seem  much,  but  I 
hope  as  you  will  accept  of  the  sword,  which  belonged  to  one  of 
their  officers,  and  the  rest  to  her.  Also,  on  account  of  what 
was  in  the  last  piece  as  you  forwarded,  I  send  a  letter  to  go 
along  with  the  things,  if  Miss  Winter,  who  have  been  so  kind, 
or  you,  would  deliver  the  same.  To  whom  I  make  bold  to 
send  my  respects  as  well  as  to  yourself,  and  hoping  this  will 
find  you  well  and  all  friends,  and 

"  From  your  respectful, 

"  HENRY  WINBURN, 
"  Color-Sergeant,  101st  Regiment." 

"  March. 

"  MY  DEAR  TOM, — I  begin  to  think  I  may  see  you  again 
yet,  but  it  has  been  a  near  shave.  I  hope  Sergeant  Winburn's 
letter,  and  the  returns,  in  which  I  see  I  was  put  down  '  dan- 
gerously wounded,"  will  not  have  frightened  you  very  much. 
The  war  is  over ;  and,  if  I  live  to  get  down  to  Calcutta  you 
will  see  me  in  the  summer,  please  God.  The  end  was  like  the 
beginning — going  right  up  to  guns.  Our  regiment  is  fright- 
fully cut  up ;  there  are  only  three  hundred  men  left  under 
arms — the  rest  dead  or  in  hospital.  I  am  sick  at  heart  at  it, 
and  weak  in  body,  and  can  only  write  a  few  lines  at  a  time, 

but  will  go  on  with  this  as  I  can,  in  time  for  next  mail. 

******** 

"  Since  beginning  this  letter  1  have  had  another  relapse.  So, 
in  case  I  should  never  finish  it,  I  will  say  at  once  what  I  most 
want  to  say.  Winburn  has  saved  my  life  more  than  once,  and 
is  besides  one  of  the  noblest  and  bravest  fellows  in  the  world ; 
so  I  mean  to  provide  for  him  in  case  anything  should  happen 
to  me.  I  have  made  a  will,  and  appointed  you  my  executor, 
and  left  him  a  legacy.  You  must  buy  his  discharge,  and  get 


THE  INTERCEPTED  LETTER-BAG.  497 

him  home  and  married  to  the  Englebourn  beauty  as  soon  as 
possible.  But  what  I  want  you  to  understand  is  that,  if  the 
legacy  isn't  enough  to  do  this,  and  make  all  straight  with  her 
old  curmudgeon  of  a  father,  it  is  my  first  wish  that  whatever 
will  do  it  should  be  made  up  to  him.  He  has  been  in  hospital 
with  a  bad  flesh  wound,  and  has  let  out  to  me  the  whole  of  his 
story,  of  which  you  had  only  given  me  the  heads.  If  that 
young  woman  does  not  wait  for  him,  and  book  him,  I  shall 
give  up  all  faith  in  petticoats.  Now  that's  done  I  feel  more  at 
ease. 

"  Let  me  see.  I  haven't  written  for  six  weeks  and  more,  just 
before  our  last  great  fight.  You'll  know  all  about  it  from  the 
papers  long  before  you  get  this — a  bloody  business — I  am  loth 
to  think  of  it.  I  was  knocked  over  in  the  last  of  their  entrench- 
ments, and  should  then  and  there  have  bled  to  death  had  it  not 
been  for  Winburn.  He  never  left  me,  though  the  killing  and 
plundering  and  roystering  afterwards  was  going  on  all  round, 
and  strong  temptation  to  a  fellow  when  his  blood  is  up,  and  he 
Bees  his  comrades  at  it,  after  such  work  as  we  had  had.  What's 
more,  he  caught  my  Irish  fellow  and  made  him  stay  by  me,  too, 
and  between  them  they  managed  to  prop  me  up  and  stop  the 
bleeding,  though  it  was  touch  and  go.  I  never  thought  they 
would  manage  it.  You  can't  think  what  a  curious  feeling  it  is, 
the  life  going  out  of  you.  I  was  perfectly  conscious,  and  knew 
all  they  were  doing  and  saying,  and  thought  quite  clearly, 
though  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  way,  about  you,  and  a  whole  jumble 
of  people  and  things  at  home.  It  was  the  most  curious  pain- 
less mixture  of  dream  and  life,  getting  more  dreamy  every  min- 
ute. I  don't  suppose  I  could  have  opened  my  eyes  or  spoken ; 
at  any  rate  I  had  no  wish  to  do  so,  and  didn't  try.  Several 
times  the  thought  of  death  came  close  to  me ;  and,  whether  it 
was  the  odd  state  I  was  in,  or  what  else  I  don't  know,  but  the 
only  feeling  I  had  was  one  of  intense  curiosity.  I  should  think 
I  must  have  lain  there,  with  Winburn  supporting  my  head,  and 
moistening  my  lips  with  rum  and  water,  for  four  or  five  hours, 
before  a  doctor  could  be  got.  He  had  managed  to  drive  Larry 
about  till  he  had  found,  or  borrowed,  or  stolen  the  drink,  and 
then  kept  him  making  short  cruises  in  search  of  help  in  the 
shape  of  hospital-stuff,  ambulances,  or  doctors,  from  which  Mas- 
ter Larry  always  came  back  without  the  slightest  success.  My 
belief  is,  he  employed  those  precious  minutes,  when  he  was 
from  under  his  sergeant's  eye,  in  looting.  At  last  Winburn 
got  impatient,  and  I  heard  him  tilling  Larry  what  he  was  to  do 
while  he  was  gone  himself  to  find  a  doctor ;  and  then  I  was 
moved  as  gently  as  if  I  had  been  a  sick  girl.  I  heard  him  go 


498  TON  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

off  with  a  limp,  but  did  not  know  till  long  after  of  his  wound. 

"Larry  had  made  such  a  wailing  and  to-do  when  they  first 
found  me,  that  natural  reaction  now  set  in,  and  he  began  gen- 
tly and  tenderly  to  run  over  in  his  mind  what  could  be  made 
out  of  '  the  captain,'  and  what  would  become  of  his  things.  I 
found  out  this,  partly  through  his  habit  of  talking  to  himself, 
and  partly  from  the  precaution  which  he  took  of  ascertaining 
where  my  watch  and  purse  were,  and  what  else  I  had  upon  me. 
It  tickled  me  immensely  to  hear  him.  Presently  I  found  he  was 
examining  my  boots,  which  he  pronounced  'iligant  entirely,' 
and  wondered  whether  he  could  get  them  on.  The  « serjint ' 
would  never  want  them.  And  he  then  proceeded  to  assert, 
while  he  actually  began  unlacing  them,  that  the  captain  would 
never  have  *  bet  him '  but  for  the  boots,  which  '  was  worth  ten 
feet  in  a  furlong  to  any  man.'  'Shure  'tis  too  late  now  ;  but 
wouldn't  I  like  to  run  him  agin  with  the  bare  feet  ? '  I  couldn't 
stand  that,  and  just  opened  my  eyes  a  little,  and  moved  my 
hand,  and  said,  '  Done.'  I  wanted  to  add,  *  you  rascal,'  but 
that  was  too  much  forme.  Larry's  face  of  horror,  which  I  just 
caught  through  my  half-opened  eyes,  would  have  made  me  roar, 
if  I  had  had  strength  for  it.  I  believe  the  resolution  I  made 
that  he  should  never  go  about  in  my  boots  helped  me  to  pull 
through ;  but,  as  soon  as  Winburn  came  back  with  the  doctor, 
Master  Larry  departed,  and  I  much  doubt  whether  I  shall 
ever  set  eyes  on  him  again  in  the  flesh ;  not  if  he  can  help  it, 
certainly.  The  regiment,  what's  left  of  it,  is  away  in  the  Pun- 
jaub,  and  he  with  it.  Winburn,  as  I  told  you,  is  hard  hit,  but 
no  danger.  I  have  great  hopes  that  he  will  be  invalided.  You 
may  depend  upon  it  he  will  escort  me  home,  if  any  interest  of 
mine  can  manage  it ;  and  the  dear  old  chief  is  so  kind  to  me 
that  I  think  he  will  arrange  it  somehow. 

"  I  must  be  wonderfully  better  to  have  spun  such  a  yarn. 
Writing  those  first  ten  lines  nearly  finished  me,  a  week  ago, 
and  now  I  am  scarcely  tired  after  all  this  scrawl.  If  that  ras- 
eal,  Larry,  escapes  hanging  another  year,  and  comes  back  home, 
I  will  run  him  yet,  and  thrash  his  head  off. 

"  There  is  something  marvellously  life-giving  in  the  idea  of 
sailing  for  old  England  again  ;  and  "l  mean  to  make  a  strong 
fight  for  seeing  you  again,  old  boy.  God  bless  you.  Write 
again  for  the  chance,  directing  to  my  agents  at  Calcutta,  as  be- 
fore. Ever  your  half-alive,  but  whole-hearted  and  affectionate 
friend, 

"H.EAST." 


MASTE&'S  TERM.  499 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

MASTER'S  TEEM. 

ONE  more  look  into  the  old  college  where  we  have  spent  so 
much  time  already,  not,  I  hope,  altogether  unpleasantly.  Our 
hero  is  up  in  the  summer  term,  keeping  his  three  weeks'  resi- 
dence, the  necessary  preliminary  to  an  M.  A.  degree.  We  find 
him  sitting  in  Hai'dy's  rooms ;  tea  is  over,  scouts  out  of  col- 
lege,  candles  lighted,  and  silence  reigning,  except  when  distant 
sounds  of  mirth  come  from  some  undergraduates' rooms  on  the 
opposite  side  of  quad,  through  the  open  windows. 

Hardy  is  deep  in  the  budget  of  Indian  letters,  some  of  which 
we  have  read  in  the  last  chapter ;  and  Tom  reads  them  over 
again  as  his  friend  finishes  them,  and  then  carefully  folds  them 
up  and  puts  them  back  in  their  places  in  a  large  pocket-case. 
Except  an  occasional  explanatory  remark,  or  exclamation  of 
interest,  no  word  passes  until  Hardy  finishes  the  last  letter. 
Then  he  breaks  out  into  praises  of  the  two  Harrys,  which  glad- 
dens Tom's  heart  as  he  fastens  the  case,  and  puts  it  back  in  his 
pocket,  saying,  "  Yes,  you  won't  find  two  finer  fellows  in  a  long 
summer's  day ;  no,  nor  in  twenty." 

"  And  you  expect  him  home,  then,  in  a  week  or  two  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  Just  about  the  time  I  shall  be  going 
down." 

"  Don't  talk  about  going  down.  You  haven't  been  here  a 
week."  I 

"Just  a  week.  One  out  of  three.  Three  weeks  wasted  in 
keeping  one's  Master's  term !  Why  can't  you  give  a  fellow  his 
degree  quietly,  without  making  him  come  and  kick  his  heels 
here  for  three  weeks  ?  " 

"  You  ungrateful  dog !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  en- 
joyed coming  back,  and  sitting  in  dignity  in  the  bachelors'  seats 
in  chapel,  and  at  the  bachelors'  table  in  hall,  and  thinking  how 
much  wiser  you  are  than  the  undergraduates?  Besides,  your 
old  friends  want  to  see  you,  and  you  ought  to  want  to  see 
them. 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  something  of  you  again,  old 
fellow.  I  don't  find  that  a  year's  absence  has  made  any  change 
in  you.  But  who  else  is  there  that  I  care  to  see?  My  old 
friends  are  gone,  and  the  year  has  made  a  great  gap  between 
me  and  the  youngsters.  They  look  on  me  as  a  sort  of  don." 

"  Of  course  they  do.  Why,  you  are  a  sort  of  don.  You 
will  be  an  M.A,  in  a  fortnight,  and  a  member  of  Convoca- 
tion " 

"  Very  likely ;  but  I  don't  appreciate  the  dignity ;  I  can  tell 


500  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

you  being  up  here  now  is  anything  but  enjoyable.  You  have 
never  broken  with  the  place.  And  then,  you  always  did  your 
duty,  and  have  done  the  college  credit.  You  can't  enter  into 
the  feelings  of  a  fellow  whose  connection  with  Oxford  has  been 
quite  broken  off,  and  who  wasted  three  parts  of  his  time  here, 
when  he  comes  back  to  keep  his  Master's." 

"  Come,  come,  Tom.  Yon  might  have  read  more  certainly, 
with  benefit  to  yourself  and  the  college,  and  taken  a  higher  de- 
gree. But,  after  all,  didn't  the  place  do  you  a  great  deal  or 
good?  and  you  didn't  do  it  much  harm.  I  don't  like  to  see 
you  in  this  sort  of  gloomy  state  ;  it  isn't  natural  to  you." 

"  It  is  becoming  natural.  You  haven't  seen  much  of  me 
during  the  last  year,  or  you  would  have  remarked  it.  And 
then,  as  I  tell  you,  Oxford,  when  one  has  nothing  to  do  in  it 
but  to  moon  about,  thinking  over  one's  past  follies  and  sins, 
isn't  cheerful.  It  never  was  a  very  cheerful  place  to  me  at  the 
best  of  times." 

"  Not  even  at  pulling  times  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  river  is  the  part  I  like  best  to  think  of.  But 
even  the  river  makes  me  rather  melancholy  now.  One  feels 
one  has  done  with  it." 

"  Why,  Tom,  I  believe  your  melancholy  comes  from  their 
not  having  asked  you  to  pull  in  the  boat." 

"  Perhaps  it  does.  Don't  you  call  it  degrading  to  be  pulling 
in  the  torpid  in  one's  old  age  ?  " 

"Mortified  vanity,  man!  They  have  a  capital  boat.  I 
wonder  how  we  should  have  liked  to  have  been  turned  out  for 
some  bachelor  just  because  he  had  pulled  a  good  oar  in  his 
day?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  don't  blame  the  young  ones,  and  I  hope  I  do 
my  duty  in  the  torpid.  By  the  way,  they're  an  uncommonly 
nice  set  of  youngsters.  Much  better  behaved  in  every  way 
than  we  were,  unless  it  is  that  they  put  on  their  best  manners 
before  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  do.  The  fact  is,  they  are  really 
fine  young  fellows." 

"  So  I  think.  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  Jack  ;  since  we  are  sit- 
ting and  talking  our  minds  to  one  another  at  last,  like  old  times, 
somebody  has  made  the  most  wonderful  change  in  this  college. 
I  rather  think  it  is  seeing  what  St.  Ambrose's  is  now,  and 
thinking  what  it  was  in  my  time,  and  what  an  uncommon 
member  of  society  I  should  have  turned  out  if  I  had  had  the 
luck  to  have  been  here  now  instead  of  then,  that  makes  me 
down  in  the  mouth — more  even  than  having  to  pull  in  the 
torpid  instead  of  the  racing  boat." 


MASTER'S  TERM.  501 

"  You  do  think  it  is  improved,  then  ?  " 

"  Think !  Why  it  is  a  different  place  altogether ;  and,  as 
you  are  the  only  new  tutor,  it  must  have  been  your  doing. 
Now,  I  want  to  know  your  secret." 

"  I've  no  secret,  except  taking  a  real  interest  in  all  that  the 
men  do,  and  living  with  them  as  much  as  I  can.  You  may 
fancy  it  isn't  much  of  a  trial  to  me  to  steer  the  boat  down,  or 
run  on  the  bank  and  coach  the  crew." 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  ;  you  were  beginning  that  before  I  left, 
in  your  first  year.  I  knew  that  would  answer." 

"Yes.  The  fact  is,  I  find  that  just  what  I  like  best  is  the 
Very  best  thing  for  the  men.  With  very  few  exceptions  they 
are  all  glad  to  be  stirred  up,  and  meet  me  nearly  half-way  in 
reading,  and  three-quarters  in  everything  else.  I  believe  they 
would  make  rne  captain  to-morrow." 

"And  why  don't  you  let  them,  then  ?" 

"No ;  there's  a  time  for  everything.  I  go  in  in  the  scratch 
fours  for  the  pewters,  and — more  by  token — my  crew  won 
them  two  years  running.  Look  at  my  trophies,"  and  he  pointed 
to  two  pewter  pots,  engraved  with  the  college  arms,  which 
stood  on  his  sideboard. 

"Well,  I  dare  say  you're  right.  But  what  does  the  presi- 
dent say?" 

"Oh,  he  is  a  convert.  Didn't  you  see  him  on  the  bank  when 
you  torpids  made  your  bump  the  other  night?" 

"No,  you  don't  mean  it?  Well,  do  you  know,  a  sort  of 
vision  of  black  tights,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  crossed  me, 
but  I  never  gave  it  a  second  thought.  And  so  the  president 
comes  out  to  see  the  St.  Ambrose  boat  row  ?  " 

"  Seldom  misses  two  nights  running." 

"  Then,  carry  me  out,  and  bury  me  decently.  Have  you  seen 
old  Tom  walking  round  Peckwater  lately  on  his  clapper,  smok- 
ing a  cigar  with  the  Dean  of  Christchurch  ?  Don't  be  afraid. 
I  am  ready  for  anything  you  like  to  tell  me.  Draw  any  amoant 
you  like  on  my  faith ;  I  shall  honor  the  draft  after  that." 

"  The  president  isn't  a  bad  judge  of  an  oar,  when  he  sets  his 
mind  to  it." 

"  Isn't  he  ?  But,  I  say,  Jack, — no  sell, — how  in  the  world 
did  it  happen?" 

"  I  believe  it  happened  chiefly  through  his  talks  with  me. 
When  I  was  first  made  tutor  he  sent  for  me  and  told  me  he 
had  heard  I  encouraged  the  young  men  in  boating,  and  he  must 
positively  forbid  it.  I  didn't  much  care  about  staying  up  ;  so 
I  was  pretty  plain  with  him,  and  said  if  I  was  not  allowed  to 
take  the  line  I  thought  best  in  such  matters  I  must  resign  at 


502  TOJJf  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  end  of  term.  He  assented,  but  afterwards  thought  better 
of  it,  and  sent  for  me  again,  and  we  had  several  encounters.  I 
took  my  ground  very  civilly  but  firmly,  and  he  had  to  give  up 
one  objection  after  another.  I  think  the  turning-point  was 
when  he  quoted  St.  Paul  on  me,  and  said  I  was  teaching  boys 
to  worship  physical  strength,  instead  of  teaching  them  to  keep 
under  their  bodies  and  bring  them  into  subjection.  Of  course 
I  countered  him  there  with  tremendous  effect.  The  old  boy 
took  it  very  well,  only  saying  he  feared  it  was  no  use  to  argue 
further — in  this  matter  of  boat-racing  he  had  come  to  a  con- 
clusion, not  without  serious  thought,  many  years  before.  How- 
ever, he  came  round  quietly.  And  so  he  has  on  other  points. 
In  fact,  he  is  a  wonderfully  open-minded  man  for  his  age,  if  you 
only  put  things  to  him  the  right  way." 

"  Has  he  come  round  about  gentlemen-commoners  ?  I  see 
you've  only  two  or  three  up." 

"  Yes.  We  haven't  given  up  taking  them  altogether.  I  hope 
that  may  come  soon.  But  I  and  another  tutor  took  to  pluck- 
ing them  ruthlessly  at  matriculation,  unless  they  were  quite 
up  to  the  commoner  standard.  The  consequence  was,  a  row 
in  common  room.  We  stood  out,  and  won.  Luckily,  as  you 
know,  it  has  always  been  given  out  here  that  all  undergraduates, 
gentlemen-commoners,  and  commoners,  have  to  pass  the  same 
college  examinations,  and  to  attend  the  same  courses  of  lect- 
ures. You  know  also  what  a  mere  sham  and  pretence  the 
rule  had  become.  Well,  we  simply  made  a  reality  of  it,  and 
in  answer  to  all  objectors,  said,  Is  it  our  rule  or  not  ?  If  it  is,  we 
are  bound  to  act  on  it.  If  you  want  to  alter  it,  there  are  the 
regular  ways  of  doing  so.  After  a  little  grumbling  they  let 
us  have  our  way,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  velvet  is  getting 
scarce  at  St.  Ambrose." 

"  What  a  blessing !  What  other  miracles  have  you  been  per- 
forming ?  " 

"  The  best  reform  we  have  carried  is  throwing  the  kitchen 
and  cellar  open  to  the  undergraduates." 

"  W-h-e-w!  That's  just  the  sort  of  reform  we  should  hare 
appreciated.  Fancy  Drysdale's  lot  with  the  key  o£  the  college 
cellars,  at  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  shiny  night." 

"  You  don't  quite  understand  the  reform.  You  remember, 
when  you  were  an  undergraduate  you  couldn't  give  a  dinner 
in  college,  and  you  had  to  buy  your  wine  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  awful  firewater  we  used  to  get.  The  governor 
supplied  me,  like  a  wise  man." 

"Well,  we  have  placed  the  college  in  the  relation  of  benevo- 
lent father.  Every  undergraduate  now  can  give  two  dinners 


MASTER'S   TERM.*  503 

a  term  in  his  own  room,  from  the  kitchen  ;  or  more,  if  he 
comes  and  asks,  and  has  any  reason  to  give.  We  take  care 
that  they  have  a  good  dinner  .it  a  reasonable  rate,  and  the  men 
are  delighted  with  the  arrangement.  I  don't  believe  there  are 
three  men  in  the  college  now  who  have  hotel  bills.  And  we 
let  them  have  all  their  wine  out  of  the  college  cellars." 

"  That's  what  I  call  good  common-sense.  Of  course  it  must 
answer  in  every  way.  And  you  find  they  all  come  to  you?" 

"Almost  all.  They  can't  get  anything  like  the  wine  we  give 
them  at  the  price,  and  they  know  it." 

"  Do  you  make  them  pay  ready  money?" 

"The  dinners  and  wine  are  charged  in  their  battel  bills;  so 
they  have  to  pay  once  a  term,  just  as  they  do  for  their  ordi- 
nary commons." 

"  It  must  swell  their  battel  bills  awfully." 

"  Yes,  but  battel  bills  always  come  in  at  the  beginning  of 
term,  when  they  are  flush  of  money.  Besides,  they  all  know 
that  battel  bills  must  be  paid.  In  a  small  way  it  is  the  best 
thing  that  ever  was  done  for  St.  Ambrose's.  You  see  it  cuts 
so  many  ways.  Keeps  men  in  college,  knocks  off  the  most 
objectionable  bills  at  inns  and  pastry-cooks,  keeps  them  from 
being  poisoned,  makes  them  pay  their  bills  regularly,  shows 
them  that  we  like  them  to  be  able  to  live  like  gentlemen — " 

"And  lets  you  dons  know  what  they  are  all  about,  and  how 
much  they  spend  in  the  way  of  entertaining." 

"  Yes ;  and  a  very  good  thing  for  them  too.  They  know 
that  we  shall  not  interfere  while  they  behave  like  gentlemen." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  objecting.     And  was  this  your  doing  too?" 

"  No  ;  a  joint  business.  We  hatched  it  in  the  common  room, 
and  then  the  bursar  spoke  to  the  president,  who  was  furious, 
and  said  we  were  giving  the  sanction  of  the  college  to  dis- 
graceful luxury  and  extravagance.  Luckily,  he  had  not  the 
power  of  stopping  us,  and  now  is  convinced." 

"  The  goddess  of  common-sense  seems  to  have  alighted  again 
in  the  quad  of  St.  Ambrose.  You'll  never  leave  the  place, 
Jack,  now  you're  beginning  to  get  everything  your  own  way." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  don't  mean  to  stop  up  more  than  another 
year  at  the  outside.  I  have  been  tutor  nearly  three  years  now ; 
that's  about  long  enough." 

"  Do  you  think  you're  right  ?  You  seem  to  have  hit  on  your 
line  in  life  wonderfully.  You  like  the  work,  and  the  work 
likes  you.  You  are  doing  p.  heap  of  good  up  here.  You'll  be 
president  in  a  year  or  two,  depend  on  it.  I  should  say  you  had 
better  stick  to  Oxford." 

"No.  I  should  be  of  no  use  in  a  year  or  wo.  We  want  a 
constant  current  of  fresh  blood  here." 


504  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  In  a  general  way.  But  you  don't  get  a  man  every  day  who 
can  throw  himself  into  the  men's  pursuits,  and  can  get  hold  of 
them  in  the  right  way.  And  then,  after  all,  when  a  fellow  has 
got  such  work  cut  out  for  him  as  you  have,  Oxford  must  be  an 
uncommonly  pleasant  place  to  live  in." 

"  Pleasant  enough  in  many  ways.  But  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten  how  you  used  to  rail  against  it." 

"  Yes.  Because  I  never  hit  off  the  right  ways  of  the  place. 
But,  if  I  had  taken  a  first  and  got  a  fellowship,  I  should  like  it 
well  enough,  I  dare  say." 

"  Being  a  fellow,  on  the  contrary,  makes  it  worse.  "While 
one  was  an  undergraduate  one  could  feel  virtuous  and  indignant 
at  the  vices  of  Oxford,  at  least  at  those  which  one  did  not 
indulge  in,  particularly  at  the  flunkeyism  and  money- worship 
which  are  our  most  prevalent  and  disgraceful  sins.  But  when 
one  is  a  fellow,  it  is  quite  another  affair.  They  become  a  sore 
burden  then,  enough  to  break  one's  heart." 

"  Why,  Jack,  we're  changing  characters  to-night.  Fancy 
your  coming  out  in  the  abusive  line !  Why,  I  never  said  hardei 
things  of  Alma  Mater  myself.  However,  there's  plenty  oi 
flunkeyism  and  money-worship  everywhere  else." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  not  so  heart-breaking  in  other  places.  When 
one  thinks  what  a  great  centre  of  learning  and  faith  like  Oxford 
ought  to  be — that  its  highest  educational  work  should  just  be 
the  deliverance  of  us  all  from  flunkeyism  and  money-worship — 
and  then  looks  at  matters  here  without  rose-colored  spectacles, 
it  gives  one  sometimes  a  sort  of  chilly  leaden  despondency, 
which  is  very  hard  to  struggle  against." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  Jack,  for  one  can't 
help  loving  the  place  after  all." 

"  So  I  do,  God  knows.  If  I  didn't  I  shouldn't  care  for  its 
shortcomings." 

"  Well,  the  flunkeyism  and  money-worship  were  bad  enough, 
but  I  don't  think  they  were  the  worst  things — at  least  not  in 
my  day.  Our  neglects  were  almost  worse  than  our  worships.' 

"  You  mean  the  want  of  all  reverence  for  parents  ?  Well, 
perhaps  that  lies  at  the  root  of  the  false  worships.  They  spring 
up  on  the  vacant  soil." 

"  And  the  want  of  reverence  for  women,  Jack.  The  worst 
of  all,  to  my  mind ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.     But  we  are  not  at  the  bottom  yet.' 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  we  must  worship  God  before  we  can  reverence 
parents  or  women,  or  rout  out  flunkeyism  and  money-worship." 

"  Yes.    But  after  all,  can  we  fairly  Jay  that  eiu  on  Oiford  ? 


MASTER'S  TERM.  505 

Surely,  whatever  may  be  growing  up  side  by  side  with  it, 
there's  more  Christianity  here  than  almost  anywhere  else." 

"Plenty  of  common-room  Christianity — belief  in  a  dead 
Go^.  There,  I  have  never  said  it  to  any  one  but  you,  but  that 
is  the  slough  we  have  to  get  out  of.  Don't  think  that  I 
despair  for  us.  We  shall  do  it  yet;  but  it  will  be  sore  work, 
stripping  off  the  comfortable  wine-party  religion  in  which  we 
are  wrapped  up — work  for  our  strongest  and  our  wisest." 

"  And  yet  you  think  of  leaving  ?  " 

"  There  are  other  reasons.  I  will  tell  you  some  day.  But 
now,  to  turn  to  other  matters,  how  have  you  been  getting  on 
this  last  year?  You  write  so  seldom  that  I  am  all  behind- 
hand." 

"  Oh,  much  the  same  as  usual." 

"Then  you  are  still  like  one  of  those  who  went  out  to 
David  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  in  debt." 

"  But  discontented  ?  " 

"  Pretty  much  like  you  there,  Jack.  However,  content  is  no 
virtue,  that  I  can  see,  while  there's  anything  to  mend.  Who 
is  going  to  be  contented  with  game-preserving,  and  corn-laws, 
and  grinding  the  faces  of  the  poor?  David's  camp  was  a  bet- 
ter place  than  Saul's,  any  day." 

Hardy  got  up,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out  a  bundle  of 
papers,  which  Tom  recognized  as  the  Wessex  Freeman.  He 
felt  rather  uncomfortable,  as  his  friend  seated  himself  again, 
and  began  looking  them  over. 

"You  see  what  I  have  here?"  he  said.     Tom  nodded. 

"  Well,  there  are  some  of  the  articles  I  should  like  to  ask  you 
about,  if  you  don't  object." 

"  No  ;  go  on." 

"  Here  is  one,  then,  to  begin  with.  I  won't  read  it  all.  Let 
me  see ;  here  is  what  I  was  looking  for,"  and  he  began  read- 
ing :  " '  One  would  think,  to  hear  these  landlords,  ovir  rulers, 
talk,  that  the  glorious  green  fields,  the  deep  woods,  the  ever- 
lasting hills,  and  the  rivers  that  run  among  them,  were  made 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  ministering  to  their  greedy  lusts  and 
mean  ambitions ;  that  they  may  roll  out  amongst  unrealities 
their  pitiful  mock  lives,  from  their  silk  and  lace  cradles  to  their 
spangled  coffins,  studded  with  silver  knobs,  and  lying  coats  of 
arms,  reaping  where  they  had  not  sown,  and  gathering  where 
they  had  not  strewed ;  making  the  omer  small  and  the  ephah 
great,  that  they  may  sell  the  refuse  of  the  wheat — " 

"  That'll  do,  Jack.     But  what's  the  date  of  that  paper  ?  " 

"  July  last.     Is  it  yours,  then  ?  " 


506  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Yes.  And  I  allow  it's  too  strong  and  one-sided.  I  have 
given  up  writing  altogether ;  will  that  satisfy  you  ?  I  don't 
see  iny  own  way  clear  enough  yet,  but  for  all  that,  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  what  I  wrote  in  that  paper." 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say  after  that,  except  that  I'm 
heartily  glad  that  you  have  given  up  writing  for  the  present." 

"  But,  I  say,  old  fellow,  how  did  you  get  these  papers,  and 
know  about  my  articles  ?  " 

"  They  were  sent  me.  Shall  I  burn  them  now,  or  would  you 
like  to  have  them?  We  needn't  say  anything  more  about 
them." 

"Burn  them,  by  all  means.  I  suppose  a  friend  sent  them  to 
you  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so."  Hardy  went  on  burning  the  papers  in  si- 
lence ;  and,  as  Tom  watched  him,  a  sudden  light  seemed  to 
break  upon  him. 

"  I  say,  Jack,"  he  said,  presently,  "  a  little  bird  has  been 
whispering  something  to  me  about  that  friend."  Hardy  winced 
a  little,  and  redoubled  his  diligence  in  burning  the  papers. 
Tom  looked  on  smiling,  and  thinking  how  to  go  on  now  that 
he  had  so  unexpectedly  turned  the  tables  on  his  monitor,  when 
the  clock  struck  twelve. 

"  Hullo  !  "  he  said,  getting  up  ;  "  time  for  me  to  knock  out, 
or  old  Copas  will  be  in  bed.  To  go  back  to  where  we  started 
from  to-night — as  soon  as  East  and  Harry  Winburn  get  back 
we  shall  have  some  jolly  doings  at  Englebourn.  There'll  be  a 
wedding  I  hope,  and  you'll  come  over  and  do  parson  for  us, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  You  mean  for  Patty  ?     Of  course  I  will." 

"  The  little  bird  whispered  to  me  that  you  wouldn't  dislike 
visiting  that  part  of  the  old  county:  Good-night,  Jack.  I  wish 
you  success,  old  fellow,  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  hope  after  all 
that  you  may  leave  St.  Ambrose's  within  the  year." 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

FROM   INDIA    TO   ENGLEBOURN. 

IF  a  knowledge  of  contemporary  history  must  be  reckoned 
as  an  important  element  in  the  civilization  of  any  people,  then 
I  am  afraid  that  the  good  folks  of  Englebourn  must  have  been 
content,  in  the  days  of  our  story,  with  a  very  low  place  on  the 
ladder.  How,  indeed,  was  knowledge  to  percolate,  so  as  to 
reach  down  to  the  foundations  of  Englebournian  society — the 
stratum  upon  which  all  others  rest — the  common  agricultural 
laborer,  producer  of  corn,  and  other  grain,  the  careful  and  stolid 


FROM  INDIA  TO  ENGLEBOURN.  507 

nurse  and  guardian  of  youthful  oxen,  sheep,  and  pigs, — many 
of  them  far  better  fed  and  housed  than  his  own  children  ?  All 
penetrating  as  she  is,  one  cannot  help  wondering  that  she  did 
not  give  up  Englebourn  altogether  as  a  hopeless  job. 

So  far  as  written  periodical  instruction  is  concerned  (with  the 
exception  of  the  Quarterly,  which  Dr.  Winter  had  taken  in 
from  its  commencement,  but  rarely  opened),  the  supply  was 
limited  to  at  most  half  a  dozen  weekly  papers.  A  London 
journal,  sound  in  church  and  state  principles,  most  respectable 
but  not  otherwise  than  heavy,  came  every  Saturday  to  the 
Kectory.  The  Conservative  county  paper  was  taken  in  at  the 
Red  Lion ;  and  David  the  constable,  and  the  blacksmith,  clubbed 
together  to  purchase  the  Liberal  paper,  by  help  of  which 
they  managed  to  wage  unequal  war  with  the  knot  of  village 
quidnuncs,  who  assembled  almost  nightly  at  the  bar  of  the 
Tory  beast  above  referred  to, — that  king  of  beasts,  red  indeed 
in  color,  but  of  the  truest  blue  in  political  principle.  Besides 
these,  perhaps  three  or  four  more  papers  were  taken  by  the 
farmers.  But,  scanty  as  the  food  was,  it  was  quite  enough  foi 
the  mouths  ;  indeed,  when  the  papers  once  passed  out  of  the 
parlors,  they  had  for  the  most  part  performed  their  mission. 
Few  of  the  farm-servants,  male  or  female,  had  curiosity  or 
scholarship  enough  to  spell  through  the  dreary  columns. 

And  oral  teaching  was  not  much  more  plentiful,  as  how  was 
it  likely  to  be  ?  Englebourn  was  situated  on  no  trunk  road, 
and  the  amount  of  intercourse  between  it  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  wag  of  the  most  limited  kind.  The  rector  never  left 
home  ;  the  curate  at  rare  intervals.  Most  of  the  farmers  went 
to  market  once  a  week,  and  dined  at  their  ordinary,  discussing 
county  politics  after  their  manner,  but  bringing  home  little, 
except  as  much  food  and  drink  as  they  could  cleverly  carry. 
The  carrier  went  to  and  from  Newbury  once  a  week  ;  but  he 
was  a  silent  man,  chiefly  bent  on  collecting  and  selling  butter. 
The  postman,  who  was  deaf,  only  went  as  far  as  the  next  vil- 
lage. The  wagoners  drove  their  masters'  produce  to  market 
from  time  to  time,  and  boozed  away  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
kitchen,  or  tap,  or  skittle-alley,  of  some  small  public-house  in 
the  nearest  town,  while  their  horses  rested.  With  the  above 
exceptions,  probably  not  one  of  the  villagers  strayed  ten  miles 
from  home,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  As  to  visitors,  an 
occasional  peddler  or  small  commercial  traveller  turned  up 
about  once  a  quarter.  A  few  boys  and  girls,  more  enterprising 
than_their  fellows,  went  out  altogether  into  the  world,  of  their 
own  accord,  in  the  course  of  the  year ;  and  an  occasional  burly 
ploaghboy,  or  carter's  boy,  was  entrapped  into  taking  the 


508  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

queen's  shilling  by  some  subtle  recruiting  sergeant.  But  few 
of  these  were  seen  again,  except  at  long  intervals.  The  yearly 
village  feasts,  harvest  homes,  or  a  meet  of  the  hounds  on 
Englebourn  Common,  were  the  most  exciting  events  which  in 
an  ordinary  way  stirred  the  surface  of  Englebourn  life ;  only 
faintest  and  most  distant  murmurs  of  the  din  and  sti'ife  of  the 
great  outer  world,  of  wars,  and  rumors  of  wars,  the  fall  of 
governments  and  the  throes  of  nations,  reached  that  primitive, 
out-of-the-way  little  village. 

A  change  was  already  showing  itself  since  Miss  Winter  had 
been  old  enough  to  look  after  the  schools.  The  waters  were 
beginning  to  stir ;  and  by  this  time,  no  doubt,  the  parish  boasts 
a  regular  book-hawker  and  reading-room ;  but  at  that  day 
Bssglebourn  was  like  one  of  those  small  ponds  you  may  find  in 
some  nook  of  a  hill-side,  the  banks  grown  over  with  under- 
wood, to  which  neither  man  nor  beast,  scarcely  the  winds  of 
heaven,  have  any  access.  When  you  have  found  such  a  pond 
you  may  create  a  great  excitement  amongst  the  easy-going 
newts  and  frogs  who  inhabit  it,  by  throwing  in  a  pebble.  The 
splash  in  itself  is  a  small  splash  enough,  and  the  waves  which 
circle  away  from  it  are  very  tiny  waves,  but  they  move  over 
the  whole  face  of  the  pond,  and  are  of  more  interest  to  the 
frogs  than  a  nor'-wester  in  the  Atlaunc. 

So  the  approaching  return  of  Harry  Winbrifn,  and  the  story 
of  his  doings  at  the  wars,  and  of  the  wonderful  things  he  had 
sent  home,  stirred  Englebourn  to  its  depths.  In  that  small 
corner  of  the  earth  the  sergeant  was  of  far  more  importance 
than  governor-general  and  commandcr-in-chief.  In  fact,  it  was 
probably  the  common  belief  that  he  was  somehow  the  head  of 
the  whole  business ;  and  India,  the  war,  and  all  that  hung 
thereon,  were  looked  at  and  cared  for  only  as  they  had  served 
to  bring  him  out.  So  careless  were  the  good  folk  about  every- 
thing in  the  matter  except  their  own  hero,  and  so  wonderful 
were  the  romances  which  soon  got  abroad  about  him,  that  Miss 
Winter,  tired  of  explaining  again  and  again  to  the  old  women 
without  the  slightest  effect  on  the  parochial  faith,  bethought 
her  of  having  a  lecture  on  the  subject  of  India  and  the  war  in 
the  parish  school -room. 

Full  of  this  idea,  she  wrote  off  to  Tom,  who  was  the  medium 
of  communication  on  Indian  matters,  and  propounded  it  to 
him.  The  difficulty  was,  that  Mr.  Walker  the  curate,  the  only 
person  competent  to  give  it,  was  going  away  directly  for  a 
three  weeks'  holiday,  having  arranged  with  two  neighboring 
curates  to  take  his  Sunday  duty  for  him.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  Harry  might  be  back  any  day,  it  seemed ;  so  there  was 
DO  time  to  be  lost.  Could  Tom  come  himself,  and  help  her  ? 


FROM  INDIA  TO  ENGLEBOURN.  509 

Tom  could  not ;  but  he  wrote  back  to  say  that  his  friend 
Hardy  was  just  getting  away  from  Oxford  for  the  long  vaca- 
tion, and  would  gladly  take  Mr.  Walker's  duty  for  the  three 
weeks,  if  Dr.  Winter  approved,  on  his  way  home  ;  by  which 
arrangement  Englebourn  would  not  be  without  an  efficient 
parson  on  week  days,  and  she  would  have  the  man  of 
all  others  to  help  her  in  utilizing  the  sergeant's  history  for 
the  instruction  of  the  bucolic  mind.  The  arrangement,  more- 
over, would  be  particularly  happy,  because  Hardy  had  already 
promised  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony,  which  Tom  and  she 
had  settled  would  take  place  at  the  earliest  possible  moment 
after  the  return  of  the  Indian  heroes. 

Dr.  Winter  was  very  glad  to  accept  the  offer ;  and  so,  when 
they  parted  at  Oxford,  Hardy  went  to  Englebourn,  where  we 
must  leave  him  for  the  present.  Tom  went  home — whence,  in 
a  few  days,  he  had  to  hurry  down  to  Southampton  to  meet  the 
two  Harrys.  He  was  much  shocked  at  first  to  see  the  state  of 
his  old  schoolfellow.  East  looked  haggard  and  pale  in  the  face, 
notwithstanding  the  sea-voyage.  His  clothes  hung  on  him  as 
if  they  had  been  made  for  a  man  of  twice  his  size,  and  he 
walked  with  difficulty  by  the  help  of  a  large  stick.  But  he  had 
lost  none  of  his  indomitableness,  laughed  at  Tom's  long  face, 
and  declared  that  he  felt  himself  getting  better  and  stronger 
every  day. 

"  If  you  had  only  seen  me  at  Calcutta,  you  would  sing  a 
different  song,  eh,  Winburn  ?  " 

Harry  Wiuburn  was  much  changed,  and  had  acquired  all  the 
composed  and  self-reliant  look  which  is  so  remarkable  in  a  good 
non-commissioned  officer.  Readiness  to  obey  and  command 
was  stamped  on  every  line  of  his  face  ;  but  it  required  all  his 
powers  of  self-restraint  to  keep  within  bounds  his  delight  at 
getting  home  again.  His  wound  was  quite  healed,  and  his 
health  reestablished  by  the  voyage ;  and,  when  Tom  saw  how 
wonderfully  bis  manners  and  carriage  were  improved,  and  how 
easily  his  uniform  sat  on  him,  he  felt  quite  sure  that  all  would 
be  soon  right  at  Englebourn,  and  that  Katie  and  he  would  be 
justified  in  their  prophecies  and  preparations.  The  invalids 
had  to  report  themselves  in  London,  and  thither  the  three  pro- 
ceeded together.  When  this  was  done,  Harry  Winburn  was 
sent  off  at  once.  He  resisted  at  first,  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  stay  with  his  captain  until  the  captain  could  go  into  Berk- 
shire himself.  But  he  was  by  this  time  too  much  accustomed 
to  discipline  not  to  obey  a  positive  order,  and  was  comforted 
by  Tom's  assurance  that  he  would  not  leave  East,  and  would 
do  everything  for  him  which  the  sergeant  had  been  accustomed 
to  do. 


510  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

Three  days  later,  as  East  and  Tom  were  sitting  at  breakfast^ 
a  short  note  carne  from  Miss  Winter,  telling  of  Harry's  arrival 
— how  the  bells  were  set  ringing  to  welcome  him ;  how  Mr. 
Hardy  had  preached  the  most  wonderful  sermon  on  his  story 
the  next  day;  above  all,  how  Patty  had  surrendered  at  discre-. 
tion,  and  the  banns  had  been  called  for  the  first  time.  So  the 
sooner  they  would  come  down  the  better — as  it  was  very  im- 
portant that  no  time  should  be  lost,  lest  some  of  the  old  jeal- 
ousies and  quarrels  should  break  out  again.  Upon  reading  and 
considering  which  letter,  East  resolved  to  start  for  Englebounr 
at  once,  and  Tom  to  accompany  him. 

There  was  one  person  to  whom  Harry's  return  and  approach- 
ing wedding  was  a  subject  of  unmixed  joy  and  triumph,  and 
that  was  David  the  constable.  He  had  always  been  a  sincere 
friend  to  Harry,  and  had  stood  up  for  him  when  all  the  parish 
respectabilities,  had  turned  against  him,  and  had  prophesied 
that  he  would  live  to  be  a  credit  to  the  place.  So  now  David 
felt  himself  an  inch  higher  as  he  saw  Harry  walking  about  in 
his  uniform  with  his  sweetheart,  the  admiration  of  all  Engle- 
bourn.  But,  besides  all  the  unselfish  pleasure  which  David 
enjoyed  on  his  young  friend's  account,  a  little  piece  of  private 
and  personal  gratification  came  to  him  on  his  own.  Ever  since 
Harry's  courtship  had  begun  David  had  felt  himself  in  a  false 
position  towards,  and  had  suffered  under,  old  Simon,  the  rector's 
gardener.  The  necessity  for  keeping  the  old  man  in  good 
humor  for  Harry's  sake  had  always  been  present  to  the  con- 
stable's mind  ;  and,  for  the  privilege  of  putting  in  a  good  word 
for  his  favorite  every  now  and  then,  he  had  allowed  old  Simon 
to  assume  an  air  of  superiority  over  him,  and  to  trample  upon 
him  and  dogmatize  to  him,  even  in  the  matters  of  flowers  and 
bees.  This  had  been  the  more  galling  to  David  on  account  of 
old  Simon's  intolerant  Toryism,  which  the  constable's  soul  re- 
belled against,  except  in  the  matter  of  church  music.  On  this 
one  point  they  agreed,  but  even  here  Simon  managed  to  be  un- 
pleasant. He  would  lay  the  whole  blame  of  the  changes  which 
had  been  effected  upon  David,  accusing  him  of  having  given  in 
when  there  was  no  need.  As  there  was  nothing  but  a  wall  be- 
tween the  Rectory  garden  and  David's  little  strip  of  ground, 
in  which  he  spent  all  his  leisure  time,  until  the  shades  of  even- 
ing summoned  him  to  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion  for  his  daily 
pint  and  pipe,  the  two  were  constantly  within  hearing  of  one 
another,  and  Simon,  in  times  past,  had  seldom  neglected  an 
opportunity  of  making  himself  disagreeable  to  his  long-suffer- 
ing neighbor. 

But  now  David  was  a  free  man  again ;  and  he  took  the  ear- 


FROM  INDIA  TO  ENGLEBOUBN.  511 

liest  occasion  of  making  the  change  in  his  manner  apparent  to 
Simon,  and  of  getting,  as  he  called  it,  "  upsides "  with  him. 
One  would  have  thought,  to  look  at  him,  that  the  old  gardener 
was  as  pachydermatous  as  a  rhinoceros ;  but  somehow  he  seemed 
to  feel  that  things  had  changed  between  them,  and  did  not  ap- 
preciate an  interview  with  David  now  nearly  so  much  as  of 
old.  So  he  found  very  little  to  do  in  that  part  of  the  garden 
which  abutted  on  the  constable's  premises.  When  he  could 
not  help  working  there,  he  chose  the  times  at  which  David  was 
most  likely  to  be  engaged,  or  even  took  tne  trouble  to  ascer- 
tain that  he  was  not  at  home. 

Early  on  Midsummer-day,  old  Simon  reared  his  ladder  against 
the  boundary  wall,  with  the  view  of  "doctorin'  "  some  of  the 
fruit  trees,  relying  on  a  parish  meeting,  at  which  the  constable's 
presence  was  required.  But  he  had  not  more  than  half  finished 
his  operations  before  David  returned  from  vestry,  and,  catching 
sight  of  the  top  of  the  ladder  and  Simon's  head  above  the  wall, 
laid  aside  all  other  business,  and  descended  into  the  garden. 

Simon  kept  on  at  his  work,  only  replying  by  a  jerk  of  the 
head  and  one  of  his  grunts  to  his  neighbor's  salutation. 

David  took  his  coat  off,  and  his  pruning-knife  out,  and,  estab- 
lishing himself  within  easy  snot  of  his  old  oppressor,  opened 
fired  at  once, — 

"  Thou'st  gi'en  thy  consent  then  ?  " 

"  'Tis  no  odds,  consent  or  none — her's  old  enough  to  hev  her 
own  waay." 

"  But  thou'st  gi'en  thy  consent  ?  " 

"  Ees,  then,  if  thou  wilt  hev't,"  said  Simon,  surlily ;  "  wut 
then?" 

"  So  I  heerd,"  said  David,  indulging  in  an  audible  chuckle. 

"  What  bist  a  laughin'  at  ?  " 

"  I  be  laughin'  to  think  how  folks  changes.  Do'st  mind  the 
hard  things  as  thou  hast  judged  and  said  o*  Harry?  Not  as 
ever  I  known  thy  judgment  to  be  o'  much  account,  'cept  about 
roots.  But  thou  saidst,  times  and  times,  as  a  would  come  to 
the  gallows." 

"So  a  med  yet — so  a  med  yet,"answered  Simon.  " Not  but 
wut  I  wishes  well  to  'un,  and  bears  no  grudges ;  but  others  as 
hev  got  the  law  ov  'un  medn't." 

"  'Tis  he  as  hev  got  grudges  to  bear.  He  don't  need  none  o' 
thy  forgiveness." 

"  Pr'aps  a  medn't.  But  hev  'em  got  the  law  ov  'un,  or  hevn't 
'em?" 

"  Wut  do'st  mean :  got  the  law  ov  'un  ?  " 

"  Thaay  warrants  as  wur  out  agei>  'un,  along  wi'  the  rest  as 
was  transDworted  auver  Farmer,  Tester's  job. 


512  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD 

"Oh,  he've  got  no  call  to  be  afeared  o'  thaay  now.  Thou 
know'st  I  hears  how  'tis  laid  down  at  Sessions  and  'Sizes,  wher' 
I've  a  been  this  twenty  year." 

"  Like  enuff.  Only,  wnt's  to  hinder  thaay  tryin'  ov  'un,  if 
thaay  be  minded  to't  ?  That's  wut  I  wants  to  know 

"  "Tis  wut  the  counsellors  calls  the  Statut'  o'  Lamentations," 
said  the  constable,  proudly. 

"  Wutever's  Lamentations  got  to  do  wi't  ?  " 

"A  gurt  deal,  I  tell  'ee.  What  do'st  thou  know  o'  Lamenta- 
tions?" 

"  Lamentations  cums  afore  Ezekiel  in  the  Bible." 

"That  ain't  no  kin  to  the  Statut  o'  Lamentations.  But 
there's  summut  like  to't  in  the  Bible,"  said  the  constable,  stop- 
ping his  work  to  consider  a  moment.  "Do'st  mind  the  year 
when  the  land  wur  all  to  be  guv  back  to  they  as  owned  it  fust, 
and  debts  wur  to  be  wiped  out?" 

"  Ees,  I  minds  summut  o'  that." 

"Well,  this  here  statut  says,  if  so  be  as  a  man  hev  bin  to  the 
wars,  and  sarved  his  country  like,  as  nothin'  sha'n't  be  reckoned 
agen  he,  let  alone  murder :  nothin'  can't  do  away  wi'  murder." 

"  No,  nor  oughtn't.  Hows'mdever,  you  seems  clear  about 
the  law  on't.  There's  miss  a  callin'." 

And  old  Simon's  head  disappeared  as  he  descended  the  lad- 
der to  answer  the  summons  of  his  young  mistress,  not  displeased 
at  having  his  fears  as  to  the  safety  of  his  future  son-in-law  set 
at  rest  by  so  eminent  a  legal  authority  as  the  constable.  For- 
tunately for  Harry,  the  constable's  law  was  not  destined  to  be 
tried.  Young  Wurley  was  away  in  London.  Old  Tester  was 
bedridden  with  an  accumulation  of  diseases  brought  on  by  his 
bad  life.  His  illness  made  him  more  violent  and  tyrannical 
than  ever;  but  he  could  do  little  harm  out  of  his  own  room, 
for  no  one  ever  went  to  see  him,  and  the  wretched  farm-servant 
who  attended  him  was  much  too  frightened  to  tell  him  any- 
thing of  what  was  going  on  in  the  parish.  There  was  no  one 
else  to  revive  proceedings  against  Harry. 

David  pottered  on  at  his  bees  and  his  flowers  till  old  Simon 
returned,  and  ascended  his  ladder  again. 

"  You  be  ther'  still,  be  'ee  ?  "  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  saw  David. 

"Ees.     Any  news?" 

"  Ah,  news  enuff.  He  as  wur  Harry's  captain  and  young 
Mr.  Brown  be  comin'  down  to-morrow,  and  hev  tuk  all  the 
Red  Lion  to  theirselves.  And  thaay  beant  content  to  wait  for 
banns — not  thaay — and  so  ther's  to  be  a  license  got  for  Satur- 
day. 'Tain't  scarce  decent,  that  'tain't." 

"  'Tis  best  to  get  drough  wi't,"  said  the  constable. 


FROM  INDIA  TO  ENGLEBOURN.  518 

"Then  nothin'll  sarve  'em  but  the  church  must  be  hung  wi' 
flowers,  and  wher'  be  thaay  to  cum  from  without  stripping  and 
starving  ov  my  beds  ?  Tis  shameful  to  see  how  folks  acts  wi' 
flowers  now-a-days,  a  cuttin'  on  'em  and  puttin  on  'em  about, 
as  prodigal  as  though  thaay  growed  o'  theirselves." 

"  So  'tis,  shameful,"  said  David,  whose  sympathies  for 
flowers  were  all  with  Simon.  "  I  heers  tell  as  young  Squire 
Wurley  hevs  'em  on  table  at  dinner-time  instead  o'  the  wit- 
ties." 

"  Do'ee  though  !  I  calls  it  reg'lar  papistry,  and  so  I  tells 
miss ;  but  her  only  laughs." 

The  constable  shook  his  head  solemnly  as  he  replied,  "Her've 
been  led  away  wi'  such  doin's  ever  since  Mr.  Walker  cum,  and 
took  to  organ-playin'  and  chantin'." 

"And  he  nint  no  sich  gurt  things  in  the  pulpit  neether,  ain't 
Mr.  Walker,"  chimed  in  Simon  (the  two  had  not  been  so  in 
harmony  for  years).  "  I  reckon  as  he  ain't  nothin'  to  speak  ov 
alongside  o'  this  here  new  un  as  hev  tuk  his  place.  He've  got 
a  deal  a'  move  in  'un,  he  hev." 

"Ah,  so  a  hev.  A  wunnerful  sight  o'  things  a  telled  us 
t'other  night  about  the  Indians  and  the  wars." 

"  Ah !  talking  cums  as  nat'ral  to  he  as  buttermilk  to  a  lit- 
terin'  sow." 

"Thou  should'st  a  heerd  un,  though,  about  the  battles  I 
can't  mind  the  names  on  'em — let  me  zee — " 

"I  dwun't  vally  the  neames,"  interrupted  Simon.  "They 
makes  a  deal  o'  fuss  ouver't  aall,  but  I  dwunt  tek  no  account 
on't.  'Taint  like  the  owld  wars  and  fightin'  o'  the  French,  this 
here  fightin'  wi'  blackamooes,  let  'em  talk  as  thaay  wool." 

"  No  more  'tain't.  But  'twur  a  'mazin'  fine  talk  as  he  gi'n 
us.  Hev'ee  seed  ought  'twixt  he  and  young  missus  ? 

"  Nothing  out  o'  th'  common.  I  got  plenty  to  do  without 
lookin'  arter  the  women,  and  'tain't  no  bisness  o'  mine ;  nor  o' 
thine  neether." 

David  was  preparing  a  stout  rejoinder  to  this  rebuke  of  the 
old  retainer  of  the  Winter  family  on  his  curiosity,  but  was 
summoned  by  his  wife  to  the  house  to  attend  a  customer ;  and 
by  the  time  he  could  get  out  again  Simon  had  disappeared. 

The  next  day  East  and  Tom  arrived,  and  took  possession 
of  the  Red  Lion ;  and  Englebourn  was  soon  in  a  ferment  of 
preparation  for  the  wedding.  East  was  not  the  man  to  do 
things  by  halves  ;  and,  seconded  as  he  was  by  Miss  Winter  and 
Hardy  and  Tom,  had  soon  made  arrangements  for  all  sorts  of 
merry-making.  The  school-children  were  to  have  a  whole  hol- 
iday, and,  after  scattering  flowers  at  church  and  marching  in 

88 


514  FEOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

the  bridal  procession,  were  to  be  entertained  in  a  tent  pitched 
in  the  home  paddock  of  the  Rectory,  and  to  have  an  afternoon 
of  games  and  prizes,  and  tea  and  cake.  The  bell-ringers, 
Harry's  old  comrades,  were  to  have  five  shillings  apiece,  and  a 
cricket  match,  and  a  dinner  afterwards  at  the  second  public- 
house,  to  which  any  other  of  his  old  friends  whom  Harry  chose 
to  ask  were  to  be  also  invited.  The  old  men  and  women  were 
to  be  fed  in  the  village  school-room  ;  and  East  and  Tom  were 
to  entertain  a  select  party  of  the  farmers  and  tradesmen  at  the 
Bed  Lion,  the  tap  of  which  hostelry  was  to  be  thrown  open  to 
all  comers  at  the  captain's  expense.  It  was  not  without  con- 
siderable demur  on  the  part  of  Miss  Winter  that  some  of  these 
indiscriminate  festivities  were  allowed  to  pass.  But  after  con- 
salting  with  Hardy  she  relented,  on  condition  that  the  issue  of 
beer  at  the  two  public-houses  should  be  put  under  the  control 
of  David  the  constable,  who,  on  his  part,  promised  that  law  and 
order  should  be  well  represented  and  maintained  on  the  oc- 
casion. "  Arter  all,  miss,  you  sees  'tis  only  for  once  in  a  waay," 
he  said,  "and  'twill  make  'em  remember  aal  as  hcv  bin  said  to 
'em  about  the  Indians,  and  the  rest  on't."  So  the  captain  and 
his  abettors,  having  gained  the  constable  as  an  ally,  prevailed  ; 
acd  Englebourn,  much  wondering  at  itself,  made  ready  for  a 
a  general  holiday. 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE    WEDDING-DAY. 

One — more — poor — man — un-done 
One — more — poor — man — un-done. 

THE  belfry-tower  rocked  and  reeled,  as  that  peal  rang  out, 
now  merry,  now  scornful,  now  plaintive,  from  those  narrow 
belfry  windows,  into  the  bosom  of  the  soft  southwest  wind, 
which  was  playing  round  the  old  gray  tower  of  Englebourn 
church.  And  the  wind  caught  the  peal  and  played  with  it, 
and  bore  it  away  over  Rectory  and  village  street,  and  many  a 
homestead,  and  gently  waving  field  of  ripening  corn,  and  rich 
pasture  and  water-meadow,  and  tall  whispering  woods  of  the 
Grange,  and  rolled  it  against  the  hill-side,  and  up  the  slope 
past  the  clump  of  firs  on  the  Hawk's  Lynch,  till  it  died  away 
on  the  wild  stretches  of  common  beyond. 

The  ringers  bent  lustily  to  their  work.  There  had  been  no 
such  ringing  in  Englebourn  since  the  end  of  the  great  war. 
Not  content  with  the  usual  peal  out  of  church,  they  came  back 
again  and  again  in  the  afternoon,  full  of  the  good  cheer  which 
had  been  provided  for  them ;  and  again  and  again  the  wedding 


THE  WEDDING-DAT.  515 

peal  rang  out  from  the  belfry  in  honor  of  their  old  comrade — 

One — more — poor — man — un-done — 
One — more — poor — man — un-done. 

Such  was  the  ungallant  speech  which  for  many  generations 
had  been  attributed  to  the  Englebourn  wedding-bells ;  and 
when  you  had  once  caught  the  words — as  you  would  be  sure  to 
do  from  some  wide-mouthed,  grinning  boy,  lounging  over  the 
churchyard  rails  to  see  the  wedding  pass — it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  persuade  yourself  that  they  did,  in  fact,  say  anything 
else.  Somehow,  Harry  Winburn  bore  his  undoing  in  the  most 
heroic  manner,  and  did  his  duty  throughout  the  trying  day,  as 
a  non-commissioned  officer  and  bridegroom  should.  The  only 
part  of  the  performance  arranged  by  his  captain  which  he 
fairly  resisted,  was  the  proposed  departure  of  himself  and  Patty 
to  the  station  in  the  solitary  post-chaise  of  Englebourn — a  real 
old  yellow — with  a  pair  of  horses.  East,  after  hearing  the 
sergeant's  pleading  on  the  subject  of  vehicles,  at  last  allowed 
them  to  drive  off  in  a  tax-cart,  taking  a  small  boy  with  them 
behind,  to  bring  it  back. 

As  for  the  festivities,  they  went  off  without  a  hitch,  as  such 
affairs  will,  where  the  leaders  of  the  revels  have  thefr  hearts  in 
them.  The  children  had  all  played,  and  romped,  and  eaten, 
and  drunk  themselves  into  a  state  of  torpor  by  an  early  hour 
of  the  evening.  The  farmers'  dinner  was  a  decided  success. 
East  proposed  the  health  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  was 
followed  by  Farmer  Grove  and  the  constable.  David  turned 
out  in  a  new  blue  swallow-tailed  coat,  with  metal  buttons,  of  his 
own  fabulous  cut,  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  He  and  the  farmer 
spoke  like  the  leader  of  the  Government  and  the  Opposition  in 
the  House  of  Commons  on  an  address  to  the  Crown.  There 
was  not  a  pin  to  choose  between  their  speeches,  and  a  stranger 
hearing  them  would  naturally  have  concluded  that  Harry  had 
never  been  anything  but  the  model  boy  and  young  man  of  the 
parish.  Fortunately,  the  oratorical  powers  of  Englebourn  ended 
here  ;  and  East,  and  the  majority  of  his  guests,  adjourned  to 
the  green  where  the  cricket  was  in  progress.  Each  game  last- 
ed a  very  short  time  only,  as  the  youth  of  Englebourn  were  not 
experts  in  the  noble  science,  and  lost  their  wickets  one  after 
another  so  fast,  that  Tom  and  Hardy  had  time  to  play  out  two 
matches  with  them,  and  then  to  retire  on  their  laurels,  while 
the  afternoon  was  yet  young. 

The  old  folk  in  the  village  school-room  enjoyed  their  beef 
nnd  pudding,  under  the  special  superintendence  of  Miss  Winter, 
and  then  toddled  to  their  homes,  and  sat  about  in  the  warmest 


616  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

nooks  they  could  find,  mumbling  of  old  times,  and  the  doings 
at  Dr.  Winter's  wedding. 

David  devoted  himself  to  superintending  the  issue  of  beer, 
swelling  with  importance,  but  so  full  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  from  the  great  event  of  the  day  that  nobody  minded 
his  little  airs.  He  did  his  duty  so  satisfactorily  that,  with  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  regular  confirmed  soakers,  who  stuck 
steadily  to  the  tap  of  the  Red  Lion,  and  there  managed  suc- 
cessfully to  fuddle  themselves,  there  was  nothing  like  drunken* 
ness.  In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  rare  days  when  everything 
goes  right,  and  everybody  seems  to  be  inclined  to  give  and 
take,  and  to  make  allowances  for  their  neighbors.  By  degrees 
the  cricket  flagged,  and  most  of  the  men  went  off  to  sit  over 
their  pipes,  and  finish  the  evening  in  their  own  way.  The 
boys  and  girls  took  to  playing  at  kissing  in  the  ring ;  and  the 
children  who  had  not  already  gone  home  sat  in  groups  watch- 
ing them. 

Miss  Winter  had  already  disappeared,  and  Tom,  Hardy,  and 
the  captain,  began  to  feel  that  they  might  consider  their  part 
finished.  They  strolled  together  off  the  green  towards  Hardy's 
lodgings,  the  lied  Lion  being  still  in  the  possession  of  East's 
guests, 

"  Well,  how  do  you  think  it  all  went  off  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Nothing  could  have  been  better,"  said  Hardy ;  "  and  they 
all  seem  so  inclined  to  be  reasonable  that  I  don't  think  we  shall 
even  have  a  roaring  song  along  the  street  to-night  when  the 
Bed  Lion  shuts  up." 

"  And  are  you  satisfied,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so.  I  have  been  hoping  for  this  day  any 
time  this  four  years,  and  now  it  has  come  and  gone  off  well, 
too,  thanks  to  you,  Harry." 

'*  Thanks  to  me?  Very  good  ;  I  am  open  to  any  amount  of 
gratitude." 

"  I  think  you  have  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  your 
lecond  day's  work  at  Englebourn,  at  any  rate." 

"  So  I  am.     I  only  hope  it  may  turn  out  as  well  as  the  first." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  that." 

"  I  don't  know.     I  rather  believe  in  the  rule  of  contraries." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  when  you  inveigled  me  over  from  Oxford,  and  we 
carried  off  the  sergeant  from  the  authorities,  and  defeated  the 
yeomanry  in  that  tremendous  thunder-storm,  I  thought  we 
were  a  couple  of  idiots,  and  deserved  a  week  each  in  the  lock- 
up for  our  pains.  That  business  turned  out  well.  This  time 
we  have  st«»r\e4  v\*Jb  flviucr  oHors.  and  bells  ringing,  and 

80—" 


THE  WEDDING-DAY.  517 

"  This  business  will  turn  out  better.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Then  let  us  manage  a  third  day's  work  in  these  parts  as 
noon  as  possible.  I  should  like  to  get  to  the  third  degree  of 
comparison,  and  perhaps  the  superlative  will  turn  up  trumps  for 
me  somehow.  Are  there  many  more  young  women  in  the  place 
as  pretty  as  Mrs.  Winburn  ?  This  marrying  complaint  is  very 
catching,  I  find." 

"  There's  my  Cousin  Katie,"  said  Tom,  looking  stealthily  at 
Hardy ;  "  I  won't  allow  that  there's  any  face  in  the  country- 
side to  match  hers.  What  do  you  say,  Jack  ?  " 

Hardy  was  confused  by  this  sudden  appeal. 

"  I  haven't  been  long  enough  here  to  judge,"  he  said.  "I 
have  always  thought  Miss  Winter  very  beautiful.  I  see  it  is 
nearly  seven  o'clock,  and  I  have  a  call  or  two  to  make  in  the 
village.  I  should  think  you  ought  to  get  some  rest  after  this 
tiring  day,  Captain  East." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking  of  just  throwing  a  fly  over  the  mill 
tail.  There's  such  a  fine  head  of  water  on." 

"  Isn't  it  too  bright  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,  a  little  ;  marrying  weather  and  fishing 
weather  don't  agree.  Only  what  else  is  there  to  do  ?  But  if 
you  are  tired,"  he  added,  looking  at  East,  "  I  don't  care  a  straw 
about  it.  I  shall  stay  with  you." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  shall  hobble  down  with  you,  and  lie  on 
the  bank  and  smoke  a  cheroot." 

"  No,  you  sha'n't  walk,  at  any  rate.  I  can  borrow  the  con- 
stable's pony,  old  Nibble,  the  quietest  beast  in  the  world. 
He'll  stand  for  a  week  if  we  like  while  I  fish  and  you  lie  and 
look  on.  I'll  be  off,  and  bring  him  round  in  two  minutes." 

"  Then  we  shall  meet  for  a  clumsy  tea  at  nine  at  my  lodg- 
ings," said  Hardy,  as  he  went  off  to  his  pastoral  duties. 

Tom  and  East,  in  due  time,  found  themselves  by  the  side  of 
the  stream.  There  was  only  a  small  piece  of  fishable  water  in 
Englebourn.  The  fine  stream,  which,  a  mile  or  so  below,  in  the 
Grange  grounds,  might  be  called  a  river,  cam*)  into  respectable 
existence  only  about  two  hundred  yards  above  Englebourn 
mill.  Here  two  little  chalk  brooks  met,  and  former  millers  had 
judiciously  deepened  the  channel,  and  dammed  the  united 
waters  back  so  as  to  get  a  respectable  reservoir.  Above  the 
junction  the  little  weedy,  bright,  creeping  brooks,  afforded 
good  sport  for  small  truants  groppling  about  with  their  hands, 
or  bobbing  with  lobworms  under  the  hollow  banks,  but  were 
not  available  for  the  scientific  angler.  The  parish  ended  at 
the  fence  next  below  the  mill  garden,  on  the  other  side  of 


518  TOM  BEOWN  J.T  OXFORD. 

which  the  land  was  part  of  the  Grange  estate.  So  there  was 
just  the  piece  of  still  water  above  the  mill,  and  the  one  field 
below  it,  over  which  Tom  had  leave.  On  ordinary  occasions 
this  would  have  been  enough,  with  careful  fishing,  to  last  him 
tall  dark ;  but  his  nerves  were  probably  somewhat  excited  by 
the  events  of  the  day,  and  East  sat  near  and  kept  talking^  so 
he  got  over  his  water  faster  than  usual.  At  any  rate,  he  had 
arrived  for  the  second  time  at  the  envious  fence  before  the  sun 
was  down.  The  fish  were  wondrous  wary  in  the  miller's  bit  of 
water — as  might  be  expected,  for  they  led  a  dog  of  a  life  there, 
between  the  miller  and  his  men,  and  their  nets,  and  baits  of 
all  kinds  always  set.  So  Tom  thought  himself  lucky  to  get  a 
couple  of  decent  fish,  the  only  ones  that  were  moving  within 
his  liberty ;  but  he  could  not  help  looking  with  covetous  eyes 
on  the  fine  stretch  of  water  below,  all  dimpling  with  rises. 

"Why  don't  you  get  over  and  fish  below?"  said  East,  from 
his  seat  on  the  bank ;  "  don't  mind  me.  I  can  watch  you  from 
here ;  besides,  lying  on  the  turf  on  such  an  evening  is  luxury 
enough  by  itself." 

"  I  can't  go.  Both  sides  below  belong  to  that  fellow  Wurley." 

"  The  sergeant's  amiable  landlord  and  prosecutor  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  the  yeoman  with  whom  you  exchanged  shots  on 
the  common." 

"Hang  it,  Tom,  just  jump  over  and  catch  a  brace  of  his 
trout.  Look  how  they  are  rising." 

"No.  I  don't  know.  I  never  was  very  particular  about 
poaching,  but  somehow  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  it  on  his  land.  I 
don't  like  him  well  enough." 

"  You're  right,  I  believe.  But,  just  look  there.  There's  a 
whopper  rising  not  more  than  ten  yards  below  the  rail.  You 
might  reach  him,  I  think,  without  trespassing,  from  where  you 
stand." 

"  Shall  I  have  a  shy  at  him  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  can't  be  poaching  if  you  don't  go  on  his  ground." 

Tom  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  and  threw  over  the 
rails,  which  crossed  the  stream  from  hedge  to  hedge  to  mark 
the  boundaries  of  the  parish,  until  he  got  well  over  the  place 
where  the  fish  was  rising. 

"  There,  that  was  at  your  fly,"  said  East,  hobbling  up  im 
great  excitement. 

"  All  right,  I  shall  have  him  directly.  There  he  is.  Hullo  \ 
Harry,  I  say !  Splash  with  your  stick.  Drive  the  brute  back. 
Bad  luck  to  him.  Look  at  that !  " 

The  fish  when  hooked  had  come  straight  up-stream  towards 
his  captor,  and,  notwithstanding  East's  attempts  to  frighten 


THE  WEDDING-DAY.  519 

him  back,  had  rushed  in  under  tho  before-mentioned  rails, 
which  were  adorned  with  jagged  nails,  to  make  crossing  on 
them  unpleasant  for  the  Englebourn  boys.  Against  one  of 
these  Tom's  line  severed,  and  the  waters  closed  over  two  beau- 
.  teous  flies,  and  some  six  feet  of  lovely  taper  gut. 

East  laughed  loud  and  merrily ;  and  Tom,  crestfallen  as  he 
was,  was  delighted  to  hear  the  old  ring  coming  back  into  his 
friend's  voice. 

"  Harry,  old  fellow,  you're  picking  up  already  in  this  glo- 
rious air." 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Two  or  three  more  weddings  and  fishings 
will  set  me  up  altogether.  How  could  you  be  so  green  as  ,to 
throw  over  those  rails  ?  It's  a  proper  lesson  to  you,  Tom,  for 
poaching." 

"  Well,  that's  cool.  Didn't  I  throw  down-stream  to  please 
you?" 

"  You  ought  to  have  resisted  temptation.  But,  I  say,  what 
are  you  at  ?  " 

"  Putting  on  another  cast,  of  course." 

"  Why,  you're  not  going  on  to  Wurley's  land  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  suppose  not.     I  must  try  the  mill  tail  again." 

"  It's  no  good.  You've  tried  it  over  twice,  and  I'm  getting 
bored." 

"Well,  what  shall  we  do,  then?" 

"  I've  a  mind  to  get  up  to  the  hill  there  to  see  the  sun  set 
— what's  its  name? — where  I  waited  with  the  cavalry  that 
night,  you  know." 

"Oh!  the  Hawk's  Lynch.  Come  along,  then;  I'm  your 
man." 

So  Tom  put  up  his  rod,  and  caught  the  old  pony,  and  the 
two  friends  were  soon  on  their  way  towards  the  common, 
through  lanes  at  the  baclc  of  the  village. 

The  wind  had  sunk  to  sleep  as  the  shadows  lengthened. 
There  was  no  sound  abroad  except  that  of  Nibble's  hoofs  oo 
the  turf, — not  even  the  hum  of  insects ;  tor  the  few  persever- 
ing gnats,  who  were  still  dancing  about  in  the  slanting  glints 
of  sunshine  that  struck  here  and  there  across  the  lanes,  had 
left  off  humming.  Nothing  living  met  them,  except  an  occa- 
sional stag-beetle,  steering  clumsily  down  the  lane,  and  seem- 
ing, like  a  heavy  coaster,  to  have  as  much  as  he  could  fairly 
manage  in  keeping  clear  of  them.  They  walked  on  in  silence 
for  some  time,  which  was  broken  at  last  by  East. 

"  I  haven't  had  time  to  tell  you  about  my  future  prospects." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?     Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  got  a  letter  two  days  ago  from  New  Zealand, 


520  TOSt  BROWN  A±  OXFORD. 

where  I  find  lam  a  considerable  landowner.  A  cousin  of  mine 
has  died  out  there  and  left  me  his  property." 

"  Well,  you're  not  going  to  leave  England,  surely  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am.  The  doctors  say  the  voyage  will  do  me  good, 
and  the  climate  is  just  the  one  to  suit  me.  What's  the  good 
of  my  staying  here?  I  sha'a't  be  fit  for  service  again  for 
years.  I  shall  go  on  half-pay,  and  become  an  enterprising 
agriculturist  at  the  Antipodes.  I've  spoken  to  the  sergeant, 
and  arranged  that  he  and  his  wife  shall  go  with  me ;  so,  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  his  discharge,  and  he  has  done  honeymoon- 
ing, we  shall  start.  I  wish  you  would  come  with  us." 

Tom  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears;  but  soon  found  that 
East  was  in  earnest,  and  had  an  answer  to  all  his  remon- 
strances. Indeed,  he  had  very  little  to  say  against  the  plan, 
for  it  jumped  with  his  own  humor ;  and  he  could  not  help 
admitting  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  a  wise  one, 
and  that,  with  Harry  Winburn  for  his  head  man,  East  couldn't 
do  better  than  carry  it  out. 

"  I  knew  you  would  soon  come  round  to  it,"  said  th  cap- 
tain ;  "  what  could  I  do  dawdling  about  at  home,  with  just 
enough  money  to  keep  me  and  get  me  into  mischief?  There  I 
shall  have  a  position  and  an  object;  and  one  may  be  of  some 
use,  and  make  one's  mark  in  a  new  country.  And  we'll  get  a 
snug  berth  ready  for  you  by  the  time  you're  starved  out  of  the 
old  country.  England  isn't  the  place  for  poor  men  with  any 
go  in  them." 

"  I  believe  you're  right,  Harry,"  said  Tom,  mournfully. 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  in  a  few  years,  when  we've  made  our 
fortunes,  we'll  come  back  and  have  a  look  at  the  old  country, 
and  perhaps  buy  up  half  Englebourn,  and  lay  our  bones  in  the 
old  churchyard." 

"  And  if  we  don't  make  our  fortunes?" 

"  Then  we'll  stay  out  there." 

"Well,  if  I  were  my  own  master  I  think  I  should  make  one 
with  you.  But  I  could  never  leave  my  father  and  mother,  or 
-or—" 

"  Oh,  I  understand.  Of  course,  if  matters  go  all  right  in 
that  quarter,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  But,  from  what  you 
have  told  me,  I  thought  you  might  be  glad  of  a  regular  break 
in  your  life,  a  new  start  in  a  new  world." 

"  Very  likely  I  may.  I  should  have  said  so  myself  this 
morning.  But  somehow  I  feel  to-night  more  hopeful  than  I 
have  for  years." 

"  Those  wedding-chimes  are  running  in  your  head." 

"  Yes ;  and  they  have  lifted  a  load  off  my  heart,  too.     Four 


THJL   WEDDING  DAT.  521 

years  ago  I  was  very  near  doing  the  greatest  wrong  a  man  can 
do  to  that  girl  who  was  married  to-day,  and  to  that  fine  fellow 
her  husband,  who  was  the  first  friend  I  ever  had.  Ever  since 
then  I  have  been  doing  my  best  to  set  matters  straight,  and 
have  often  made  them  crookeder.  But  to-day  they  are  all 
straight,  thank  God,  and  I  feel  as  if  a  chain  were  broken  from 
off  my  neck.  All  has  come  right  for  them,  and  perhaps  my 
own  turn  will  come  before  long." 

"  To  be  sure  it  will.  I  must  be  introduced  to  a  certain 
young  lady  before  we  start.  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  don't  mean 
to  give  up  hopes  of  seeing  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  world." 

"  Well,  here  we  are  on  the  common.  "What  a  glorious  sun- 
set !  Come,  stir  up,  Nibble.  We  shall  be  on  the  Lynch  just 
in  time  to  see  him  dip  if  we  push  on." 

Nibble,  that  ancient  pony,  finding  that  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  scrambled  up  the  greater  part  of  the  ascent  successfully. 
But  his  wheezings  and  roarings  during  the  operation  excited 
East's  pity.  So  he  dismounted  when  they  came  to  the  foot  of 
the  Hawk's  Lynch,  and,  tying  Nibble's  bridle  to  a  furze  bush, 
— a  most  unnecessary  precaution, — set  to  work  to  scale  the  last 
and  steepest  bit  of  the  ascent  with  the  help  of  his  stick  and 
Tom's  strong  arm. 

They  paused  every  ten  paces  or  so  to  rest  and  look  at  the 
sunset.  The  broad  vale  below  lay  in  purple  shadow ;  the  soft 
flocks  of  little  clouds  high  up  over  their  heads,  and  stretching 
away  to  the  eastern  horizon,  floating  in  a  sea  of  rosy  light ;  and 
the  stems  of  the  Scotch  firs  stood  out  like  columns  of  ruddy 
flame. 

"  Why,  this  bents  India,"  said  East,  putting  up  his  hand  t« 
shade  his  eyes,  which  were  fairly  dazzled  by  the  blaze.  "  What 
a  contrast  to  the  last  time  I  was  up  here !  Do  you  remember 
that  awful  black-blue  sky  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  ?     Like  a  nightmare.     Hullo  !  who's  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  it  isn't  the  parson  and  Miss  Winter !  "  said  East, 
smiling. 

True  enough,  there  they  were,  standing  together  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  mound,  beyond  the  firs,  some  ten  yards  in  front 
of  the  last  comers,  looking  out  into  the  sunset. 

"  I  say,  Tom,  another  good  omen,"  whispered  East ;  "  hadn't 
we  better  beat  a  retreat  ?  " 

Before  Tom  could  answer,  or  make  up  his  mind  what  to  do, 
Hardy  turned  his  head  and  caught  sight  of  them,  and  then 
Katie  turned  too,  blushing  like  the  little  clouds  overhead.  It 
was  an  embarrassing  moment.  Tom  stammered  out  that  they 
had  come  up  quite  by  chance,  and  then  set  to  work,  well  sec- 


522  TOM  BJtOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

ended  by  East,  to  look  desperately  unconscious,  and  to  expatiate 
on  the  beauties  of  the  view.  The  light  began  to  fade,  and  the 
little  clouds  to  change  again  from  soft  pink  to  gray,  and  the 
evening  star  shone  out  clear  as  they  turned  to  descend  the  hill, 
when  the  Englebourn  clock  chimed  nine. 

Katie  attached  herself  to  Tom,  while  Hardy  helped  the  cap- 
tain  down  the  steep  pitch,  and  on  to  the  back  of  Nibble.  They 
went  a  little  ahead.  Tom  was  longing  to  speak  to  his  cousin, 
bat  could  not  tell  how  to  begin.  At  last  Katie  broke  silence, — 

"  I  am  so  vexed  that  this  should  have  happened !  " 

"  Are  you,  dear  ?  So  am  not  I,"  he  said,  pressing  her  arm  to 
his  side. 

"But  I  mean,  it  seems  so  forward — as  if  I  had  met  Mr. 
Hardy  here  on  purpose.  What  will  your  friend  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  He  will  think  no  evil." 

"  But  indeed,  Tom,  do  tell  him,  pray.  It  was  quite  an  ac- 
cident. You  know  how  I  and  Mary  used  to  go  up  the  Hawk's 
Lynch  whenever  we  could,  on  fine  evenings." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  it  well." 

"  And  I  thought  of  you  both  so  much  to-day,  that  I  couldn't 
help  coming  up  here." 

"And  you  found  Hardy?  I  don't  wonder.  I  should  come 
up  to  see  the  sun  set  every  night,  if  I  lived  at  Englebourn." 

"  No.  He  came  up  some  time  after  me.  Straight  up  the 
hill.  I  did  not  see  him  till  he  was  quite  close.  I  could  not 
run  away  then.  Indeed,  it  was  not  five  minutes  before  you 
came." 

"  Five  minutes  are  as  good  as  a  year  sometimes." 

"And  you  will  tell  your  friend,  Tom,  how  it  happened?" 

"  Indeed  I  will,  Katie.  May  I  not  tell  him  somethiug 
more?" 

He  looked  round  for  an  answer,  and  there  was  just  light 
onougU  to  read  it  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  debt  is  deepening  to  the  Hawk's  Lynch,"  he  said,  as 
they  walked  on  through  the  twilight.  "  Blessed  five  minutes ! 
Whatever  else  they  may  take  with  them,  they  will  carry  my 
thanks  forever.  Look  how  clear  and  steady  the  light  of  that 
star  is,  just  over  the  church  tower.  I  wonder  whether  Mary  is 
at  a  great  hot  dinner.  Shall  you  write  to  her  soon?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     To-night." 

"You  may  tell  her  that  there  is  no  better  Englishman  walk- 
Ing  the  earth  than  my  friend,  John  Hardy.  Here  we  are  at  his 
lodgings.  East  and  are  Igoing  to  tea  with  him.  Wish  them 
good-nightj  and  I  will  see  you  home." 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  STREET. 
CHAPTER  XXV. 

A   MEETING   IX    THE    STREET. 

FROM  the  Englebourn  festivities  Tom  and  East  returned  to 
London.  The  captain  was  bent  on  starting  for  his  possessions 
in  the  South  Pacific ;  and,  as  he  regained  strength,  energized 
over  all  his  preparations,  and  went  about  in  caos  purchasing 
agricultural  implements,  sometimes  by  the  light  of  nature,  and 
sometimes  under  the  guidance  of  Harry  Winburn.  He  invested 
also  in  something  of  a  library,  and  in  large  quantities  of  sad- 
dlery. In  short,  packages  of  all  kinds  began  to  increase  and 
multiply  upon  him.  Then  there  was  the  selecting  a  vessel,  and 
all  the  negotiations  with  the  ship's  husband  as  to  terms,  and 
the  business  of  getting  introduced  to,  and  conferring  with, 
people  from  the  colony,  or  who  were  supposed  to  know  some- 
thing about  it.  Altogether,  East  had  plenty  of  work  on  his 
hands ;  and,  the  more  he  had  to  do,  the  better  and  more 
cheery  he  became 

Tom,  on  the  contrary,  was  rather  lower  than  usual.  His 
half-formed  hopes,  that  some  good  luck  was  going  to  happen  to 
him  after  Patty's  marriage,  were  beginning  to  grow  faint,  and 
the  contrast  of  his  friend's  definite  present  purpose  in  life  with 
his  own  uncertainty,  made  him  more  or  less  melancholy  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts.  His  father  had  offered  him  a  tour  abroad, 
now  that  he  had  finished  with  Oxford,  urging  that  he  seemed 
to  want  a  change  to  freshen  him  up  before  buckling  to  a  pro- 
fession, and  that  he  would  never,  in  all  likelihood,  have  such 
another  chance.  But  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  accept 
the  offer.  The  attraction  to  London  was  too  strong  for  him ; 
and,  though  he  saw  little  hope  of  anything  happening  to  improve 
his  prospects,  he  could  not  keep  away  from  it.  He  spent 
most  of  his  time  when  not  with  East  in  haunting  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Mr.  Porter's  house  in  Belgravia,  and  the  places 
where  he  was  likely  to  catch  distant  glimpses  of  Mary,  avoid- 
ing all  chance  of  actual  meeting  or  i-ecognition,  from  which  he 
shrank  in  his  present  frame  of  mind. 

The  nearest  approach  to  the  flame  which  he  allowed  himself 
was  a  renewal  of  his  old  friendship  with  Grey,  who  was  still 
working  on  in  his  Westminster  rookery.  He  had  become  a 
great  favorite  with  Mrs.  Porter,  who  was  always  trying  to  get 
him  to  her  house  to  feed  him  properly,  and  was  much  astonished 
and  sometimes  almost  provoked,  at  the  small  success  of  her 
hospitable  endeavors.  Grey  was  so  taken  up  with  his  own  pursuit 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  be  surprised  that  he  never  met 
Tom  at  the  house  of  his  relations.  He  was  iiwiocent  of  all 


524  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

knowledge  or  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  things,  so  that  Tom 
could  talk  to  him  with  perfect  freedom  about  his  uncle's 
household,  picking  up  all  such  scraps  of  information  as  Grey 
possessed  without  compromising  himself  or  feeling  shy. 

Thus  the  two  old  schoolfellows  lived  on  together  after  their 
return  from  Englebourn,  in  a  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
which  one  of  Tom's  college  friends,  who  had  been  beguiled  from 
the  perusal  of  Stephens'  Commentaries,  and  aspirations  after 
the  woolsack,  by  the  offer  of  a  place  on  board  a  yacht  and  a 
cruise  to  Norway,  had  fortunately  lent  him. 

We  join  company  with  our  hero  again  on  a  fine  July  morn- 
ing. Readers  will  begin  to  think  that,  at  any  rate,  he  is 
always  blessed  with  fine  weather  whatever  troubles  he  may 
have  to  endure ;  but,  if  we  are  not  to  have  fine  weather  in 
novels,  when  and  where  are  we  to  have  it?  It  was  a  fine  July 
morning,  then,  and  the  streets  were  already  beginning  to  feel 
sultry  as  he  worked  his  way  westward.  Grey,  who  had  never 
given  up  hopes  of  bringing  Tom  round  to  his  own  views,  had 
not  neglected  the  opportunities  which  this  residence  in  town 
offered,  and  had  enlisted  Tom's  services  on  more  than  one 
occasion.  He  had  found  him  specially  useful  in  instructing 
the  big  boys,  whom  he  was  trying  to  bring  together  and  civilize 
in  a  "  Young  Men's  Club,"  in  the  rudiments  of  cricket  on 
Saturday  evenings.  But  on  the  morning  in  question  an  alto- 
gether different  work  was  on  hand. 

A  lady,  living  some  eight  or  nine  miles  to  the  north-west  of 
London,  who  took  great  interest  in  Grey's  doings,  h*d  asked 
him  to  bring  the  children  of  his  night-school  down  to  spend  a 
day  in  her  grounds,  and  this  was  the  happy  occasion.  It  was 
before  the  days  of  cheap  excursions  by  rail,  so  that  vans  had  to 
be  found  for  the  part)'  ;  and  Grey  had  discovered  a  benevolent 
remover  of  furniture  in  Paddington,  who  was  ready  to  take  them 
at  a  reasonable  figure.  The  two  vans,  with  awnings  and  curtains 
in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  and  horses  with  tasselled  ear-caps, 
and  everything  handsome  about  them,  were  already  drawn  up 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  excited  children,  and  scarcely  less 
excited  mothers,  when  Tom  arrived.  Grey  was  arranging  his 
forces,  and  laboring  to  reduce  the  Irish  children,  who  formed 
almost  half  of  his  ragged  little  flock,  into  something  like  order 
before  starting.  By  degrees  this  was  managed,  and  Tom  was 
placed  in  command  of  the  rear  van,  while  Grey  reserved  the 
leading  one  to  himself.  The  children  were  divided,  and  warned 
not  to  lean  over  the  sides  and  tumble  out — a  somewhat  super- 
fluous caution,  as  most  of  them,  though  unused  to  riding  in 
any  legitimate  manner,  were  pretty  well  used  to  balancing 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  STREET.  525 

themselves  behind  any  vehicle  which  offered  as  much  as  a 
spike  to  sit  on,  out  of  sight  of  the  driver.  Then  came  the 
rush  into  the  vans.  Grey  and  Tom  took  up  their  places  next 
the  doors  as  conductors,  and  the  procession  lumbered  off  with 
great  success,  and  much  shouting  from  treble  voices. 

Tom  soon  found  that  he  had  plenty  of  work  on  his  hands  to 
keep  the  peace  amongst  his  flock.  The  Irish  element  was  in  a 
state  of  wild  effervescence,  and  he  had  to  draft  them  down  to 
his  own  end,  leaving  the  foremost  part  of  the  van  to  the  soberer 
English  children.  He  was  much  struck  by  the  contrast  of  the 
whole  set  to  the  Englebourn  school  children,  whom  he  had 
lately  seen  under  somewhat  similar  circumstances.  The  dif- 
ficulty with  them  had  been  to  draw  them  out,  and  put  any 
thing  like  life  into  them ;  here,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  repress 
the  superabundant  life.  However,  the  vans  held  on  their  way, 
and  got  safely  into  the  suburbs,  and  so  at  last  to  an  occasional 
hedge,  and  a  suspicion  of  trees,  and  green  fields  beyond. 

It  became  more  and  more  difficult  now  to  keep  the  boys  in  ; 
and,  when  they  came  to  a  hill,  where  the  horses  had  to  walk, 
he  yielded  to  their  entreaties,  and,  opening  the  door,  let  them 
out,  insisting  only  that  the  girls  should  remain  seated.  They 
scattered  over  the  sides  of  the  roads,  and  up  the  banks ;  now 
chasing  pigs  and  fowls  up  to  the  very  doors  of  their  owners ; 
now  gathering  the  commonest  road-side  weeds,  and  running  up 
to  show  them  to  him,  and  ask  their  names,  as  if  they  were  rare 
treasures.  The  ignorance  of  most  of  the  children  as  to  the 
commonest  country  matters  astonished  him.  One  small  boy 
particularly  came  back  time  after  time  to  ask  him,  with  solemn 
face,  "Please,  sir,  is  this  the  country?"  and,  when,  at  last  he 
allowed  tha,t  it  was,  rejoined,  "  Then,  please,  where  are  the 
nuts  ?  " 

The  clothing  of  most  of  the  Irish  boys  began  to  tumble  to 
pieces  in  an  alarming  manner.  Grey  had  insisted  on  their  being 
made  tidy  for  the  occasion,  but  the  tidiness  was  of  a  superficial 
kind.  The  hasty  stitching  soon  began  to  give  way,  and  they 
were  rushing  about  with  wild  locks — the  strips  of  what  onca 
might  have  been  nether  garments  hanging  about  their  legs  ; 
their  feet  and  heads  bare,  the  shoes  which  their  mothers  had 
borrowed  for  the  state  occasion  having  been  deposited  under 
the  seat  of  the  van.  So,  when  the  procession  arrived  at  the 
trim  lodge-gates  of  their  hostess,  and  his  charge  descended  and 
fell  in  on  the  beautifully  clipped  turf  at  the  side  of  the  drive, 
Tom  felt  some  of  the  sensations  of  Falstaff  when  he  had  to  lead 
his  ragged  regiment  through  Coventry  streets. 

He  was  soon  at  his  ease  again,  and  enjoyed  the  day  thorough- 


526  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

ly,  and  the  drive  home  ;  but,  as  they  drew  near  town  again,  a 
sense  of  discomfort  and  shyness  came  over  him,  and  he  wished 
the  journey  to  Westminster  well  over,  and  hoped  that  the  car- 
men would  have  the  sense  to  go  through  the  quiet  parts  of  the 
town. 

He  was  much  disconcerted,  consequently,  when  the  vans  came 
to  a  sudden  stop,  opposite  one  of  the  park  entrances,  in  the 
Bayswater  road.  "  What  in  the  world  is  Grey  about  ?  "  he 
thought,  as  he  saw  him  get  out,  and  all  the  children  after  him. 
So  he  got  out  himself,  and  went  forward  to  get  an  explanation. 

"  Ob,  I  have  told  the  man  that  he  need  not  drive  us  round 
to  Westminster.  He  is  close  at  home  here  ;  and  his  horses 
nave  had  a  hard  day  ;  so  we  can  just  get  out  and  walk  home." 

"  What,  across  the  park  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Yes,  it  will  amuse  the  children,  you  know." 

"  But  they're  tired,"  persisted  Tom  ;  "  come  now,  it's  all 
nonsense  letting  the  fellow  off  ;  he's  bound  to  take  us  back." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  promised  him,"  said  Grey  :  "  besides, 
the  children  all  think  it  a  treat-  Don't  you  all  want  to  walk 
across  the  park  ?  "  he  went  on,  turning  to  them,  and  a  general 
affirmative  chorus  was  the  answer.  So  Tom  had  nothing  for  it 
but  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  empty  his  own  van,  and  follow  into 
the  park  with  his  convoy,  not  in  the  best  humor  with  Grey  for 
having  arranged  this  ending  to  their  excursion. 

They  might  have  got  over  a  third  of  the  distance  between 
the  Bayswater  road  and  the  Serpentine,  when  he  was  aware  of 
a  small  thin  voice  addressing  him. 

"  Oh,  please,  won't  you  carry  me  a  bit  ?  I'm  so  tired,"  said 
the  voice.  He  turned  in  some  trepidation  to  look  for  the 
speaker,  and  found  her  to  be  a  sickly  undergrown  little  girl  of 
ten  or  thereabouts,  with  large  pleading  gray  eyes,  very  shabbi- 
ly dressed,  and  a  little  lame.  He  had  remarked  her  several 
times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  not  for  any  beauty  or  grace  about 
her,  for  the  poor  child  had  none,  but  for  her  transparent  con- 
fidence and  trustfulness.  After  dinner,  as  they  had  been  all 
sitting  on  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  a  great  elm  to  hear  Grey 
read  a  story,  and  Tom  had  been  sitting  a  little  apart  from  the 
rest  with  his  back  against  the  trunk,  she  had  come  up  and  sat 
quietly  down  by  him,  leaning  on  his  knee.  Then  he  had  seen 
her  go  up  and  take  the  kand  of  the  lady  who  had  entertained 
them,  and  walked  along  by  her,  talking  without  the  least  shy- 
ness. Soon  afterwards  she  had  squeezed  into  the  swing  by  the 
side  of  the  beautifully  dressed  little  daughter  of  the  same  lady, 
who,  after  looking  for  a  minute  at  her  shabby  little  sister  with 
large  round  eyes,  had  jumped  out  and  run  off  to  her  mother, 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  STREET.  527 

evidently  in  a  state  of  childish  bewilderment  as  to  whether  it 
was  not  wicked  for  a  child  to  wear  such  dirty  old  clothes. 

Tom  had  chuckled  to  himself  as  be  saw  Cinderella  settling 
herself  comfortably  in  the  swing  in  the  place  of  the  ousted 
princess,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  child,  speculating  to 
himself  as  to  how  she  could  have  been  brought  up,  to  be  so 
utterly  unconscious  of  differences  of  rank  and  dress.  "  She 
seems  really  to  treat  her  fellow-creatures  as  if  she  had  been 
studying  the  Sartcr  Resartus,"  he  thought.  "  She  has  cut  down 
through  all  clothes  philosophy  without  knowing  it.  I  wonder, 
if  she  had  a  chance,  whether  she  would  go  and  sit  down  in 
the  queen's  lap  ?  " 

He  did  not  at  the  time  anticipate  that  she  would  put  his  own 
clothes  philosophy  to  so  sevei'e  a  test  before  the  day  was  over. 
The  child  had  been  as  merry  and  active  as  any  of  the  rest  dur- 
ing the  earlier  part  of  the  day ;  but  now,  as  he  looked  down, 
in  answer  to  her  reiterated  plea,  "  Won't  you  carry  me  a  bit  ? 
I'm  so  tired  ! "  he  saw  that  she  could  scarcely  drag  one  foot 
after  the  other. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  was  already  keenly  alive  to  the 
discomfort  of  walking  across  Hyde  Park  in  a  procession  of 
ragged  children,  with  such  a  figure  of  fun  as  Grey  at  their 
head,  looking,  in  his  long,  rusty,  straight-cut  black  coat,  as  if 
he  had  come  fresh  out  of  Noah's  ark.  He  didn't  care  about  it 
so  much  while  they  were  on  the  turf  in  the  out-of-the-way  parts, 
and  would  meet  nobody  but  guards,  and  nurse-maids,  and 
trades-people,  and  mechanics  out  for  an  evening  stroll.  But 
the  Drive  and  Rotten  Row  lay  before  them,  and  must  be 
crossed.  It  was  just  the  most  crowded  time  of  the  day.  He 
had  almost  made  up  his  mind  once  or  twice  to  stop  Grey  and 
the  procession,  and  propose  to  sit  down  for  half  an  hour  or  so, 
and  let  the  children  play,  by  which  time  the  world  would  be 
going  home  to  dinner.  But  there  was  no  play  left  in  the  chil- 
dren ;  and  he  had  resisted  the  temptation,  meaning,  when  they 
came  to  the  most  crowded  part,  to  look  unconscious,  as  if  it 
were  by  chance  that  he  had  got  into  such  company,  and  had  in 
fact  nothing  to  do  with  them.  But  now,  if  he  listened  to  the 
child's  plea,  and  carried  her,  all  hope  of  concealment  was  over. 
If  he  did  not,  he  felt  that  there  would  be  no  greater  flunkey  in 
the  park  that  evening  than  Thomas  Brown,  the  enlightened 
radical  and  philosopher,  amongst  the  young  gentlemen  riders 
in  Rotten  Row,  or  the  powdered  footmen  lounging  behind  the 
great  blaring  carriages  in  the  Drive. 

So  he  looked  down  at  the  child  once  or  twice  in  a  state  of 
puzzle.  A  third  time  she  looked  up  with  her  great  eyes,  and 


528  TOM  BliO\VN  AT  OXFORD. 

said,  "  Oh,  please  carry  me  a  bit ! "  and  her  piteous,  tired  face 
turned  the  scale.  "  If  she  were  Lady  Mary  or  Lady  Blanche," 
thought  he,  "  I  should  pick  her  up  at  once,  and  be  proud  of 
the  burden.  Here  goes !  "  And  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms, 
and  walked  on,  desperate  and  reckless. 

Notwithstanding  all  his  philosophy,  he  felt  his  ears  tingling 
and  his  face  getting  red,  as  they  approached  the  Drive.  It 
was  crowded.  They  were  kept  standing  a  minute  or  two  at 
the  crossing.  He  made  a  desperate  effort  to  abstract  himself 
wholly  from  the  visible  world,  and  retire  into  a  state  of  serene 
contemplation.  But  it  would  not  do ;  and  he  was  painfully 
conscious  of  the  stare  of  lack-lustre  eyes  of  well-dressed  men 
leaning  over  the  rails,  and  the  amused  look  of  delicate  ladies, 
lounging  in  open  carriages,  and  surveying  him  and  Grey  and 
their  ragged  rout  through  glasses. 

At  last  they  scrambled  across,  and  he  breathed  freely  for  a 
minute,  as  they  struggled  along  the  comparatively  quiet  path 
leading  to  Albert  Gate,  and  stopped  to  drink  at  the  fountain. 
Then  came  Rotten  Row,  and  another  pause  amongst  the 
loungers,  and  a  plunge  into  the  ride,  where  he  was  nearly  run 
down  by  two  men  whom  he  had  known  at  Oxford.  They 
shouted  to  him  to  get  out  of  the  way ;  and  he  felt  the  hot, 
defiant  blood  rushing  through  his  viens,  as  he  strode  across 
without  heeding.  They  passed  on,  one  of  them  having  to  pull 
his  horse  out  of  his  stride  to  avoid  him.  Did  they  recognize 
him?  He  felt  a  strange  mixture  of  utter  indifference,  and 
longing  to  strangle  them. 

The  worst  was  now  over ;  besides,  he  was  getting  used  to 
the  situation,  and  his  good  sense  was  beginning  to  rally.  So 
he  marched  through  Albert  Gate,  carrying  his  ragged  little 
charge,  who  prattled  away  to  him  without  a  pause,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  rest  of  the  children,  scarcely  caring  who  might 
see  him,  and  who  might  not.  They  won  safely  through  the 
omnibuses  and  carriages  on  the  Kensington  road,  and  so  into 
Belgravia.  At  last  he  was  quite  at  his  ease  again,  and  began 
listening  to  what  the  child  was  saying  to  him,  and  was  stroll- 
ing carelessly  along,  when  once  more,  at  one  of  the  crossings, 
he  was  startled  by  a  shout  from  some  riders.  There  was  straw 
laid  down  in  the  street,  so  that  he  had  not  heard  them  as  they 
cantered  round  the  corner,  hurrying  home  to  dress  for  dinner ; 
and  they  were  all  but  upon  him,  and  had  to  rein  up  their 
horses  sharply. 

The  party  consisted  of  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen,— one  old, 
the  other  young ;  the  latter  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
and  with  the  supercilious  air  which  Tom  hated  from  his  soul. 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  STREET.  529 

The  shout  caine  from  the  young  man,  and  drew  Tom's  atten- 
tion to  him  first.  All  the  devil  rushed  up  as  he  recognized  St. 
Cloud.  The  lady's  horse  swerved  against  his,  and  began  to 
rear.  He  put  his  hand  on  its  bridle,  as  if  he  had  a  right  to 
protect  her.  Another  glance  told  Tom  that  the  lady  was 
Mary,  and  the  old  gentleman,  fussing  up  on  his  stout  cob  on 
the  other  side  of  her,  Mr.  Porter. 

They  all  knew  him  in  another  moment.  He  stared  from 
one  to  the  other,  was  conscious  that  she  turned  her  horse's 
head  sharply,  so  as  to  disengage  the  bridle  from  St.  Cloud's 
hand,  and  of  his  insolent  stare,  and  of  the  embarrassment  of 
Mr.  Porter;  and  then,  setting  his  face  straight  before  him,  he 
passed  on  in  a  bewildered  dream,  never  looking  back  till  they 
were  out  of  sight.  The  dream  gave  way  to  bitter  and  wild 
thoughts,  upon  which  it  will  do  none  of  us  any  good  to  dwell. 
He  put  down  the  little  girl  outside  the  schools,  turning  abruptly 
from  the  mother,  a  poor  widow  in  scant  well-preserved  black 
clothes,  who  was  waiting  for  the  child,  and  began  thanking 
him  for  his  care  of  her ;  refused  Grey's  pressing  invitation  to 
tea,  and  set  his  face  eastward.  Bitterer  and  more  wild  and 
more  scornful  grew  his  thoughts  as  he  strode  along  past  the 
abbey,  and  up  Whitehall,  and  away  down  the  Strand,  holding 
on  over  the  crossings  without  paying  the  slightest  heed  to 
vehicle,  or  horse,  or  man.  Incensed  coachmen  had  to  pull  up 
with  a  jerk  to  avoid  running  over  him,  and  more  than  one 
sturdy  walker  turned  round  in  indignation  at  a  collision  which 
they  felt  had  been  intended,  or  at  least  there  had  been  no  effort 
to  avoid.  As  he  passed  under  the  window  of  the  Banqueting 
Hall,  and  by  the  place  in  Charing-cross  where  the  pillory  used 
to  stand,  he  growled  to  himself  what  a  pity  it  was  that  the 
times  for  cutting  off  heads  and  cropping  ears  had  gone  by. 
The  whole  of  the  dense  population  from  either  side  of  the 
Strand  seemed  to  have  crowded  out  into  that  thoroughfare  to 
impede  his  march  and  aggravate  him.  The  further  eastward 
he  got  the  thicker  got  the  crowd  ;  and  the  vans,  the  omnibuses, 
the  cabs,  seemed  to  multiply  and  get  noisier.  Not  an  alto- 
gether pleasant  sight  to  a  man  in  the  most  Christian  frame  of 
mind  is  the  crowd  that  a  fine  summer  evening  fetches  out  into 
the  roaring  Strand,  as  the  sun  fetches  out  flies  on  the  window 
of  a  village  grocery.  To  him  just  then  it  was  at  once  depress- 
ing and  provoking,  and  he  went  shouldering  his  way  towards 
Temple  Bar  as  thoroughly  out  of  tune  as  he  had  been  for  many 
a  long  day. 

As  he  passed  from  the  narrowest  part  of  the  Strand  into  the 
space  round  St.  Clement  Dane's  church,  he  was  startled,  hi  a 


530  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

momentary  lull  of  the  uproar,  by  the  sound  of  chiming  bells. 
He  slackened  his  pace  to  listen  ;  but  a  huge  van  lumbered  by, 
shaking  the  houses  on  both  sides,  and  drowning  all  sounds  but 
its  own  rattle ;  and  then  he  found  himself  suddenly  immersed 
in  a  crowd,  vociferating  and  gesticulating  round  a  policeman, 
who  was  conveying  a  woman  towards  the  station-house.  He 
shouldered  through  it, — another  lull  came,  and  with  it  the 
same  slow,  gentle,  calm  cadence  of  chiming  bells.  Again  and 
again  he  caught  it  as  he  passed  on  to  Temple  Bar ;  whenever 
the  roar  subsided  the  notes  of  the  old  hymn  tune  came  droop- 
ing down  on  him  like  balm  from  the  air.  If  the  ancient  bene- 
factor who  caused  the  bells  of  St.  Clement  Dane's  church  to 
be  arranged  to  play  that  chime  so  many  times  a  day  is  allowed 
to  hover  round  the  steeple  at  such  times,  to  watch  the  effect  of 
his  benefaction  on  posterity,  he  must  have  been  well  satisfied 
on  that  evening.  Tom  passed  under  the  Bar,  and  turned  into 
the  Temple  another  man,  softened  again,  and  in  his  right  mind. 

"  There's  always  a  voice  saying  the  right  thing  to  you  some- 
where, if  you'll  only  listen  for  it,"  he  thought.  He  took  a  few 
turns  in  the  court  to  clear  his  head,  and  then  went  up,  and 
found  Harry  East  reclining  on  a  sofa,  in  full  view  of  the  gar- 
dens and  river,  solacing  himself  with  his  accustomed  cheroot. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,"  he  said,  making  room  on  the  sofa; — 
"how  did  it  go  off?" 

"  Well  enough.     Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"In  the  city  and  at  the  docks.  I've  been  all  over  our  vessel. 
She's  a  real  clipper." 

"When  do  you  sail?" 

"  Not  quite  certain.  I  should  say  in  a  fortnight,  though." 
East  puffed  away  for  a  minute,  and  then,  as  Tom  said  nothing, 
went  on.  "  I'm  not  so  sweet  on  it  as  the  time  draws  near. 
There  are  more  of  my  chums  turning  up  every  day  from  India 
at  the  Rag.  And  this  is  uncommonly  pleasant,  too,  living  with 
you  here  in  chambers.  You  may  think  it  odd,  but  I  don  t  half 
like  getting  rid  of  you." 

"  Thanks ;  but  I  don't  think  you  will  get  rid  of  me." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  go  with  you,  if  my  people  will  let  me, 
and  you  will  take  me." 

"W-h-ew!     Anything  happened?" 

"Yes." 

"  You've  seen  her  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  go  on.  Don't  keep  a  fellow  in  suspense.  I  shall  be 
introduced,  and  eat  one  of  the  old  boy's  good  dinners,  after 
all,  before  I  sail." 


A  MEETING  IN  TEE  STREET.  531 

Tom  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  found  some  difficulty  in 
getting  out  the  words,  "  No,  it's  all  up." 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ? "  said  East,  coming  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion by  Tom's  side.  "  But  how  do  you  know  ?  Are  you  sure  ? 
What  did  she  say?" 

"  Nothing.  I  haven't  spoken  to  her ;  but  it's  all  up.  She 
was  riding  with  her  father  and  the  fellow  to  whom  she's  en- 
gaged. I  have  heard  it  a  dozen  times,  but  never  would  believe 
it.* 

"  But,  is  that  all  ?  Riding  with  her  father  and  another  man  ! 
Why,  there's  nothing  in  that." 

44  Yes,  but  there  is  though.  You  should  have  seen  his  look. 
And  they  all  knew  me  well  enough,  but  not  one  of  them  nod- 
ded even." 

"  Well,  there's  not  much  in  that  after  all.  It  may  have  been 
chance,  or  you  may  have  fancied  it." 

"No,  one  isn't  quite  such  a  fool.  However,  I  have  no  right 
to  complain,  and  I  won't.  I  could  bear  it  all  well  enough  if  he 
were  not  such  a  cold-hearted  blackguard." 

"  What,  this  fellow  she  was  riding  with  ?  " 

"Yes.  He  hasn't  a  heart  the  size  of  a  pin's  head.  He'll 
break  hei'S.  He's  a  mean  brute  too.  She  can't  know  him,  though 
he  has  been  after  her  this  year  and  more.  They  must  have 
forced  her  into  it.  Ah  !  it's  a  bitter  business,"  and  he  put  hi* 
head  between  his  hands,  and  East  heard  the  deep  catches  oi 
his  laboring  breath,  as  he  sat  by  him,  feeling  deeply  for  him, 
but  puzzled  what  to  say. 

"  She  can't  be  worth  so  much  after  all,  Tom,"  he  said  at  last 
"  if  she  would  have  such  a  fellow  as  that.  Depend  upon  it 
she's  not  what  you  thought  her." 

Tom  made  no  answer;  so  the  captain  went  on  presently, 
thinking  he  had  hit  the  right  note. 

"  Cheer  up,  old  boy.  There's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  yet  as 
ever  came  out  of  it.  Don't  you  remember  the  song — whose  is 
it  ?  Lovelace's : — 

" '  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ?  "' 

Tom  started  up  almost  fiercely,  but  recovered  himself  in  a 
moment  and  then  leant  his  head  down  again. 

"  Don't  talk  about  her,  Harry ;  you  don't  know  her, "  he 
said. 

•'  And  don't  want  to  know  her,  Tom,  if  she  is  going  to  throw 
you  over.  Well,  I  shall  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  so.  Come 
ap  to  me  presently  at  the  Rag,  when  you  feel  better." 

East  started  for  his  club,  debating  within  himself  what  he 


532  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

could  do  for  his  friend — whether  calling  out  the  party  mighn't 
do  good. 

Tom,  left  to  himself,  broke  down  at  first  sadly  ;  but,  as  the 
evening  wore  on  he  began  to  rally,  and  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  his  father,  making  a  clean  breast,  and  asking  his 
permission  to  go  with  Eact. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE   END. 

"  MY  DEAR  KATIE, — I  know  you  will  be  very  much  pained 
when  you  read  this  letter.  You  two  have  been  my  only  con- 
fidantes, and  you  have  always  kept  me  up,  and  encouraged  me 
to  hope  that  all  would  come  right.  And  after  all  that  happened 
last  week,  Patty's  marriage,  and  your  engagement, — the  two 
things  upon  earth,  with  one  exception,  that  I  most  wished  for, 
— I  quite  felt  that  my  own  turn  was  coining.  I  can't  tell  why 
I  had  such  a  strong  feeling  about  it,  but  somehow  all  the  most 
important  changes  in  my  life  for  the  last  tour  years  have  been 
so  interwoven  with  Patty  and  Harry  Winburn's  history  that, 
now  they  were  married,  1  was  sure  something  would  happen  to 
me  as  soon  as  I  came  to  London.  And,  indeed,  it  has.  Dear 
Katie,  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  write  it.  It  is  all  over.  I 
met  her  in  the  street  to-day ;  she  was  riding  with  her  father 
and  the  man  I  told  you  about.  They  had  to  pull  up  not  to 
ride  over  me ;  so  I  had  a  good  look  at  her,  and  there  can  be 
no  mistake  about  it.  I  have  often  tried  to  reason  myself  into 
the  belief  that  the  evil  day  must  come  sooner  or  later,  and  to 
prepare  myself  for  it,  but  I  might  have  spared  myself,  for  it 
could  not  have  been  worse  than  it  is  if  I  had  never  anticipated 
it.  My  future  is  all  a  blank  now.  I  can't  stay  in  England,  so 
I  have  written  home  to  ask  them  to  let  me  go  to  New  Zealand 
with  East,  and  1  am  sure  they  will  consent,  when  they  know 
all. 

"  I  shall  wait  in  town  till  I  get  the  answer.  Perhaps  I  may 
be  able  to  get  off  with  East  in  a  few  weeks.  The  sooner  the 
better ;  but,  of  course,  I  shall  not  go  without  seeing  you  and 
dear  old  Jack.  You  mustn't  mind  me  calling  him  Jack.  The 
only  thing  that  gives  me  any  pleasure  to  think  about  is  your 
engagement.  It  is  so  right,  and  one  wants  to  see  something 
going  right,  some  one  getting  their  due,  to  keep  alive  one's 
belief  in  justice  being  done  somehow  or  another  in  the  world  ; 
and  I  do  see  it,  and  acknowledge  it  when  I  think  over  his  his- 
tory and  mine  since  we  first  met.  We  have  both  got  our 
due  ;  and  you  have  oro»  yours  Katie,  for  you  have  got  the  best 
fellow  in  England- 


THE  END.  533 

*  Ah,  if  I  only  could  think  that  she  has  got  hers  !  If  I  could 
only  believe  that  the  man  she  has  chosen  is  worthy  of  her !  I 
will  try  hard  to  think  better  of  him.  There  must  be  more 
good  in  him  than  I  have  ever  seen,  or  she  would  never  have  en- 
gaged herself  to  him.  But  I  can't  bear  to  stop  here,  and  see  it 
all  going  on.  The  sooner  I  am  out  of  England  the  better.  I 
send  you  a  parcel  with  this ;  it  contains  her  notes,  and  some 
old  flowers,  and  other  matters  which  I  haven't  the  heart  to 
burn.  You  will  be  the  best  judge  what  should  be  done  with 
them.  If  you  see  your  way  to  managing  it,  I  should  like  her  to 
know  that  I  had  sent  them  all  to  you,  and  that  whatever  may 
happen  to  me  hereafter,  my  love  for  her  has  been  the  mainstay 
and  the  guiding-star  of  my  life  ever  since  that  happy  time  when 
you  all  came  to  stay  with  us  in  my  first  long  vacation.  It  found 
me  eaten  up  with  selfishness  and  conceit,  the  puppet  of  my 
own  lusts  and  vanities,  and  has  left  me — Well,  never  mind 
what  it  has  left  me.  At  any  rate,  if  I  have  not  gone  from 
worse  to  worse,  it  is  all  owing  to  her ;  and  she  ought  to  know 
it.  It  cannot  be  wrong  to  let  her  know  what  good  she  has 
scattered  unknowingly  about  her  path.  May  God  bless  and 
reward  her  for  it,  and  you,  too,  dear  cousin,  for  all  your  long 
love  and  kindness  to  one  who  is  very  unworthy  of,  but  very 
thankful  for,  them. — Ever  yours,  affectionately,  T.  B." 

The  above  letter,  and  that  to  his  father,  asking  for  leave  to 
emigrate,  having  been  written  and  sent  off,  Tom  was  left  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  his  upset,  making  manful, 
if  not  very  successful,  efforts  to  shake  off  the  load  of  depression 
which  weighed  on  him,  and  to  turn  his  thoughts  resolutely  for- 
ward to  a  new  life  in  a  new  country.  East  was  away  at  the 
docks.  There  was  no  one  moving  in  the  Temple.  The  men 
who  had  business  were  all  at  Westminster,  or  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  in  the  recesses  of  their  chambers.  Those  who  had  none 
were  for  the  most  part  away  enjoying  themselves,  in  one  way 
or  another,  amongst  the  mighty  whirl  of  the  mighty  human  sea 
of  London.  There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do,  he  had 
written  the  only  two  letters  he  had  to  write,  and  had  only  to 
sit  still  and  wait  for  the  answers,  killing  the  mean  time  as  well 
as  he  could.  Reading  came  hard  to  him,  but  it  was  the  best 
thing  to  do  perhaps;  at  any  rate,  he  was  trying  it  on,  though 
his  studies  were  constantly  interrupted  by  long  fits  of  absence 
of  mind,  during  which,  though  his  body  remained  in  the  Tem- 
ple, he  was  again  in  the  well-kept  garden  of  Barton,  or  in  the 
hazel  wood  under  the  lea  of  the  Berkshire  hills. 

He  was  roused  out  of  one  of  these  reveries,  and  brought  back 
to  external  life  and  Fig-tree  Court,  by  a  single  knock  at  the 


534  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

outet  door,  and  a  shout  of  the  newsman's  boy  for  the  paper. 
So  he  got  up,  found  the  paper,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  read, 
and  as  he  went  to  the  door  cast  his  eye  on  it,  and  saw  that  a  great 
match  was  going  on  at  Lord's.  This  gave  a  new  turn  to  his 
thoughts.  He  stood  looking  down-stairs  after  the  boy,  and 
considering  whether  he  should  not  start  at  once  for  the  match. 

He  would  be  sure  to  see  a  lot  of  acquaintance  there  at  any 
rate.  Birc  the  idea  of  seeing  and  having  to  talk  to  mere 
acquaintance  was  more  distasteful  than  his  present  solitude. 
He  was  turning  to  bury  himself  again  in  his  hole,  when  he  saw 
a  white  dog  walk  quietly  up  seven  or  eight  stairs  at  the  l/ot> 
torn  of  the  flight,  and  then  turn  round,  and  look  for  some  ono 
to  follow. 

"  How  odd  ! "  thought  Tom,  as  he  watched  him  ;  "  as  like  as 
two  peas.  It  can't  be.  No.  Why,  yes  it  is."  And  then  he 
whistled,  and  called  "Jack,"  and  the  dog  looked  up,  and 
wagged  his  tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  All  right,  I'm  coming 
directly ;  but  I  must  wait  for  my  master."  The  next  moment 
Drysdale  appeared  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  looking  up, 
said, — 

"Oh!  that's  you,  is  it?  I'm  all  right  then.  So  you  knew 
the  old  dog?" 

"  I  should  rather  think  so,"  said  Tom.  "  I  hope  I  never 
forget  a  dog  or  a  horse  I  have  once  known." 

In  the  short  minute  which  Drysdale  and  Jack  took  to  arrive 
at  his  landing,  Tom  had  time  for  a  rush  of  old  college  memo- 
ries, in  which  grave  and  gay,  pleasant  and  bitter,  were  strangely 
mingled.  The  night  when  he  had  been  first  brought  to  his 
senses  about  Patty  came  up  very  vividly  before  him,  and  the 
commemoration  days,  when  he  had  last  seen  Drysdale.  "  How 
strange ! "  he  thought ;  "is  my  old  life  coming  back  again  just 
now  ?  Here,  on  the  very  day  after  it  is  all  over,  comes  back 
the  man  with  whom  I  was  so  intimate  up  to  the  day  it  began, 
and  have  never  seen  since.  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

There  was  a  little  touch  of  embarrassment  in  the  manner  of 
both  of  them  as  they  shook  hands  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and 
turned  into  the  chambers.  Tom  motioned  to  Jack  to  take  hia 
old  place  at  one  end  of  the  sofa,  and  began  caressing  him 
there,  the  dog  uhowing  unmistakably,  by  gesture  and  whine, 
that  delight  at  renewing  an  old  friendship,  for  which  his  race 
are  so  nobly  distinguished.  Drysdale  threw  himself  down  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  watched  them. 

"  So  you  knew  the  old  dog,  Brown  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Knew  him  ? — of  course  I  did.  Dear  old  Jack !  How  well 
he  wears ;  he  is  scarcely  altered  at  all." 


THE  END.  535 

"  Very  little ;  only  steadier.  More  than  I  can  say  for  his 
master.  I'm  very  glad  you  knew  Jack." 

"  Come,  Drysdale,  take  the  other  end  of  the  sofa,  or  it  won't 
look  like  old  times.  There,  now  I  can  fancy  myself  back  at  St. 
Ambrose's." 

"  By  Jove,  Brown,  you're  the  right  sort.  I  always  said  so, 
even  after  that  last  letter.  You  pitched  it  rather  too  strong  in 
that  though.  I  was  very  near  coming  back  from  Norway  to 
quarrel  with  you." 

"  Well,  I  was  very  angry  at  being  left  in  the  lurch  by  you 
and  Blake." 

"  You  got  the  coin  all  right,  I  suppose  ?  You  never  ac- 
knowledged it." 

"  Didn't  I  ?  Then  I  ought  to  have.  Yes,  I  got  it  all  right 
about  six  months  afterwards.  I  ought  to  have  acknowledged 
it,  and  I  thought  I  had.  I'm  sorry  I  didn't.  Now  we're  all 
quits,  and  won't  talk  any  more  about  that  rascally  bill." 

"  I  suppose  I  may  light  up,"  said  Drysdale,  dropping  into 
his  old  lounging  attitude  on  the  sofa,  and  pulling  out  his 
cigar-case. 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Will  you  have  anything  ?  " 

"  A  cool  drink  wouldn't  be  amiss." 

"  They  make  a  nice  tankard  with  cider  and  a  lump  of  ice  at 
the  Rainbow.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  It  sounds  touching,"  said  Drysdale.  So  Tom  posted  off  to 
Fleet  Street  to  order  the  liquor,  and  came  back  followed  by  a 
waiter  with  the  tankard.  Drysdale  took  a  long  pull,  an<? 
smacked  his  lips. 

"  That's  a  wrinkle,"  he  said,  handing  the  tankard  to  Tom. 
"  I  suppose  the  lawyers  teach  all  the  publicans  about  here  a 
trick  or  two.  Why,  one  can  fancy  one's  self  back  in  the  old 
quad  looking  out  on  this  court.  If  it  weren't  such  an  outland- 
ieh  out-of-the-way  place  I  think  I  should  take  some  chambers 
here  myself.  How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  belong  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  away.  But 
bow  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  along  the  Strand  in  a  Hansom." 

"  I  mean,  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"  Grey  told  me." 

"  What !  Grey  who  was  at  St.  Ambrose  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  looked  puzzled." 

u  I  didn't  think  you  knew  Grey." 

"  No  more  I  do.  But  a  stout  old  party  I  met  last  night— 
your  godfather,  I  should  think  he  is — told  me  where  he  was, 
and  said  I  should  get  your  address  from  him.  So  I  looked  him 


536  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFOBD. 

up  this  morning,  in  that  dog-hole  in  Westminster  where  he 
lives.     He  didn't  know  Jack  from  Adam." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  my  godfather?" 

"  I  had  better  tell  my  story  from  the  beginning  I  see.  Last 
night  I  did  what  I  don't  often  do,  went  out  to  a  great  drum. 
There  was  an  awful  crush  of  course,  and  you  may  guess  what 
the  heat  was  in  these  dog-days,  with  gas-lights  and  wax-lighU-1 
going,  and  a  jam  of  people  in  every  corner.  I  was  fool  enougl 
to  get  into  the  rooms,  so  that  my  retreat  was  cut  off,  and  I  ha4 
to  work  right  through,  and  got  at  last  into  a  back  room,  which 
was  not  so  full.  The  window  was  in  a  recess,  and  there  was  v 
balcony  outside,  looking  over  a  little  bit  of  garden.  I  got  into 
the  balcony,  talking  with  a  girl  who  was  sensible  enough  to 
like  the  cool.  Presently  I  heard  a  voice  I  thought  I  knew  in- 
side. Then  I  heard  St.  Ambrose,  and  then  your  name.  Of 
course  I  listened,  I  couldn't  help  myself.  They  were  just  in- 
side the  window,  in  the  recess,  not  five  feet  from  us,  so  I  heard 
pretty  nearly  every  word.  Give  us  the  tankard,  I'm  as  dry  as 
an  ash-heap  with  talking. 

Tom  scarcely  able  to  control  his  impatience,  handed  the 
tankard.  "  But  who  was  it  ? — you  haven't  told  me,"  he  said, 
as  Drysdale  put  it  down  at  last  empty. 

"  Why,  that  d d  St.  Cloud.     He  was  giving  you  a  nice 

cnaracter,  in  a  sort  of  sneaking  deprecatory  way,  as  if  he  was 
sorry  for  it.  Amongst  other  little  tales,  he  said  you  used  to 
borrow  money  from  Jews — he  knew  it  for  a  certainty  because 
he  had  been  asked  himself  to  join  you  and  another  man,  mean- 
ing me,  of  course,  in  such  a  transaction.  You  remember  how 
he  wouldn't  acknowledge  the  money  I  lent  him  at  play,  and 
the  note  he  wrote  me  which  upset  Blake  so.  I  had  never 
forgotten  it.  I  knew  I  should  get  my  chance  some  day,  and 
here  it  was.  I  don't  know  what  the  girl  thought  of  me,  or  how 
she  got  out  of  the  balcony,  but  I  stepped  into  the  recess  just 
as  he  had  finished  his  precious  story,  and  landed  between  him 
and  a  comfortable  old  boy,  who  was  looking  shocked.  He  must 
be  your  godfather,  or  something  of  the  kind.  I'll  bet  you  1 
pony  you  are  down  for  something  handsome  in  his  will." 

"  What  was  his  name?    Did  you  find  out?" 

"  Yes  ;  Potter,  or  Porter,  or  something  like  it.  I've  got  his 
card  somewhere.  I  just  stared  St.  Cloud  in  the  face,  and  you 
may  depend  upon  it  he  winced.  Then  I  told  the  old  boy  that 
I  had  heard  their  talk ;  and  as  I  was  at  St.  Ambrose  with  you, 
I  should  like  to  have  five  minutes  with  him  when  St.  Cloud 
had  done.  He  seemed  rather  in  a  corner  between  us.  However, 
I  kept  in  sight  till  St.  Cloud  was  obliged  to  draw  off,  and,  to 


THE  END.  537 

cut  my  story  short  as  the  tankard  is  empty,  I  think  I  put  you 
pretty  straight  there.  You  said  we  were  quits  just  now  :  after 
last  night,  perhaps  we  are,  for  I  told  him  the  truth  of  the 
Benjamin  story,  and  I  think  he  is  squared.  He  seems  a  good 
sort  of  old  boy.  He's  a  relation  of  yours,  eh  ?  " 

"Only  a  distant  connection.     Did  anything  more  happen?" 

"Yes;  I  saw  that  he  was  flurried,  and  didn't  know  quite 
what  to  think ;  so  I  asked  him  to  let  me  call,  and  1  would 
bring  him  some  one  else  to  speak  to  your  character.  He  gave 
me  his  card,  and  I'm  going  to  take  Blake  there  to-day.  Then 
I  asked  him  where  you  were,  and  he  didn't  know,  but  said  he 
thought  Grey  could  tell  me." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Drysdale,  to  take  so  much  trouble." 

"  Trouble !  I'd  go  from  here  to  Jericho  to  be  even  with  our 
fine  friend.  I  never  forget  a  bad  turn.  I  met  him  afterwards 
in  the  cloak-room,  and  went  out  of  the  door  close  after  him,  to 
give  him  a  chance  if  he  wants  to  say  anything.  I  only  wish  he 
would.  But  why  do  you  suppose  he  is  lying  about  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell.  I've  never  spoken  to  him  since  he  left  Oxford. 
Never  saw  him  till  yesterday,  riding  with  Mr.  Porter.  I 
suppose  that  reminded  them  of  me." 

"  Well,  St.  Cloud  is  bent  on  getting  round  him  for  some 
reason  or  another,  you  may  take  your  oath  of  that.  Now  my 
time's  up ;  I  shall  go  and  pick  up  Blake.  I  should  think  I  had 
better  not  take  Jack  to  call  in  Eton  Square,  though  he'd  give 
you  a  good  character  if  he  could  speak ;  wouldn't  you,  Jack  ?" 

Jack  wagged  his  tail  and  descended  from  the  sofa. 

" Does  Blake  live  up  here  ?     What  is  he  doing?  " 

"Burning  the  candle  at  both  ends,  and  in  the  middle,  as 
usual.  Yes,  he's  living  near  his  club.  He  writes  political 
articles,  devilish  well  I  hear,  too,  and  is  reading  for  the  bar ; 
besides  which  he  is  getting  into  society,  and  going  out  when- 
ever he  can,  and  fretting  his  soul  out  that  he  isn't  prime 
minister,  or  something  of  the  kind.  He  won't  last  long  at  the 
pace  he's  going." 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  you'll  come  here  again, 
Drysdale;  or  let  me  come  and  see  you.  I  shall  be  very 
anxious  to  hear  what  has  happened." 

"  Here's  my  pasteboard  ;  I  shall  be  in  town  for  another  fort- 
night. Drop  in  when  you  like." 

And  so  Drysdale  and  Jack  went  off,  leaving  Tom  in  a 
chaotic  state  of  mind.  All  his  old  hopes  were  roused  again  as  he 
thought  over  Drysdale's  narrative.  He  could  no  longer  sit 
still,  so  he  rushed  out,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  river  side- 
walk, in  the  Temple  gardens,  where  a  fine  breeze  was  blowing, 


538  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

at  a  pace  which  astonished  the  gate-keepers  and  the  nursery- 
maids, and  children,  who  were  taking  the  air  iu  that  favorite 
spot.  Once  or  twice  he  returned  to  chambers,  and  at  last 
found  East  reposing  after  his  excursion  to  the  docks. 

East's  quick  eye  saw  at  once  that  something  had  happened, 
and  had  very  soon  heard  the  whole  story,  upon  which  he  de- 
liberated for  some  minutes,  and  rejoiced  Tom's  heart  by  say- 
ing :  "  Ah !  all  up  with  New  Zealand,  I  see.  I  shall  be  intro- 
duced after  all,  before  we  start.  Come  along,  I  must  stand 
you  a  dinner  on  the  strength  of  the  good  news,  and  we'll 
drink  her  health." 

Tom  called  twice  that  evening  at  Drysdale's  lodgings,  but  he 
was  out.  The  next  morning  he  called  again.  Drysdale  had 
gone  to  Hampton  Court  races,  and  had  left  no  message.  He 
left  a  note  for  him,  but  got  no  answer.  It  was  trying  work. 
Another  day  passed  without  any  word  from  Drysdale,  who 
seemed  never  to  be  at  home,  and  no  answer  to  either  of  his 
letters.  On  the  third  morning  he  heard  from  his  father.  It 
was  just  the  answer  which  he  had  expected, — as  kind  a  letter 
as  could  be  written.  Mr.  Brown  had  suspected  how  matters 
stood  at  one  time,  but  had  given  up  the  idea  in  consequence  of 
Tom's  silence,  which  he  regretted,  as  possibly  things  might 
have  happened  otherwise  had  he  known  the  state  of  the  case. 
It  was  too  late  now,  however ;  and  the  less  said  the  better 
about  what  might  have  been.  As  to  New  Zealand,  he  should 
not  oppose  Tom's  going,  if,  after  some  time,  he  continued  in 
his  present  mind.  It  was  very  natural  for  him  just  now  to 
wish  to  go.  They  would  talk  it  over  as  soon  as  Tom  came 
home,  which  Mr.  Brown  begged  him  to  do  at  once,  or,  at  any 
rate,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  his  friend  off.  Home  was  the 
best  place  for  him. 

Tom  sighed  as  he  folded  it  up ;  the  hopes  of  the  last  three 
days  seemed  to  be  fading  away.  He  spent  another  restless 
day,  and  by  night  had  persuaded  himself  that  Drysdale's  mis- 
sion had  been  a  complete  failure,  and  that  he  did  not  write  out 
of  kindness  to  him. 

"  Why,  Tom,  old  fellow,  you  look  as  down  in  the  mouth  as 
ever  to-night,"  East  said,  when  Tom  opened  the  door  for  him 
about  midnight,  on  his  return  from  his  club ;  "  cheer  up,  you 
may  depend  it's  all  to  go  right." 

"  But  I  haven't  seen  Drysdale  again,  and  he  hasn't  written." 

"  There's  nothing  in  that.  He  was  glad  enough  to  do  you  a 
good  turn,  I  dare  say,  when  it  came  in  his  way,  but  that  sort  of 
fellow  never  can  keep  anything  up.  He  has  been  too  much 
used  to  having  his  own  way,  and  following  his  own  fancies. 


THE  END.  539 

Don't  you  lose  deart  because  he  won't  put  himself  out  for 
you." 

"  Well,  Harry,  yon  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  You 
would  put  backbone  into  any  one." 

"  Now,  we'll  just  have  a  quiet  cheroot,  and  then  turn  in  and 
see  if  you  don't  have  good  news  to-morrow.  How  hot  it  is ; 
the  Strand  to-night  is  as  hot  as  the  Punjaub,  and  the  reek  of 
it — Phah  !  my  throat  is  full  of  it  still." 

East  took  off  his  coat,  and  was  just  throwing  it  on  a  chair, 
when  he  stopped,  and,  feeling  in  tihe  pocket,  said, — 

"  Let's  see,  here's  a  note  for  you.  The  porter  gave  it  me  as 
I  knocked  in." 

Tom  took  it  carelessly,  but  the  next  moment  was  tearing  it 
open  with  trembling  fingers.  '-From  my  cousin,"  he  said. 
East  watched  him  read,  and  saw  the  blood  rush  to  his  face, 
and  the  light  come  into  his  eyes. 

"  Good  news,  Tom,  I  see.  Bravo,  old  boy.  You've  had  a 
long  fight  for  it,  and  deserve  to  win." 

Tom  got  up,  tossed  the  note  across  the  table,  and  began 
walking  up  and  down  the  room ;  his  heart  was  too  full  for 
speech. 

"  May  I  read?  "  said  East,  looking  up. 

Tom  nodded,  and  he  read, — 

"  DEAB  TOM, — I  am  come  to  town  to  sipead  a  week  with 
them  in  Eton  Square.  Call  on  me  to-morrow  at  twelve,  or,  if 
you  are  engaged  then,  from  three  to  five.  I  have  no  time  to 
add  more  now,  but  long  to  see  you.  Your  loving  cousin, 

KATIE. 

"  P.  S. — I  will  give  you  your  parcel  back  to-morrow,  and 
then  you  can  burn  the  contents  yourself,  or  do  what  you  like 
with  them.  Uncle  bids  me  say  he  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
come  and  dine  to-morrow,  and  any  other  day  you  can  spare 
while  I  am  here." 

When  he  had  read  the  note  East  got  up  and  shook  hands 
heartily  with  Tom,  and  then  sat  down  again  quietly  to  finish 
his  cheroot,  watching  with  a  humorous  look  his  friend's  march. 

"  And  you  think  it  is  really  all  right  now?"  Tom  asked,  in 
one  form  or  another,  after  every  few  turns ;  and  East  replied 
in  various  forms  of  chaffing  assurance  that  there  could  not  be 
much  further  question  on  the  point.  At  last,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  cheroot,  he  got  up,  and  taking  his  candle,  said,  "  Good 
night,  Tom  ;  when  that  revolution  comes,  which  you're  always 
predicting,  remember  if  you're  not  shot  or  hung,  you'll  always 
find  a  roost  for  you  and  your  wife  in  New  Zealand." 


540  TOM  BEOWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  I  don't  feel  so  sure  about  the  revolution  now,  Harry." 
"  Of  course  you  don't.     Mind,  I  bargain  for  the  dinner  in 
Eton  Square.    I  always  told  you  I  should  dine  there  before  I 

started. 

*****  *  * 

The  next  day  Tom  found  that  he  was  not  engaged  at  twelve 
o'clock,  and  was  able  to  appear  in  Eton  Square.  He  was 
shown  up  into  the  drawing-room,  and  found  Katie  alone  there. 
The  quiet  and  coolness  of  the  darkened  room  was  most  grate. 
ful  to  him  after  the  glare  of  the  streets,  as  he  sat  down  by  her 
side. 

"But,  Katie,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  first  salutations  and 
congratulations  had  passed,  "  how  did  it  all  happen  ?  I  can't 
believe  my  senses  yet.  I  am  afraid  I  may  wake  up  any 
minute." 

"  Well,  it  was  chiefly  owing  to  two  lucky  coincidences ; 
though  no  doubt  it  would  have  all  come  right  in  time  without 
them." 

"  Our  meeting  the  other  day  iu  the  street,  I  suppose,  for 
one  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Coming  across  you  so  suddenly,  carrying  the  little 
girl,  reminded  Mary  of  the  day  when  she  sprained  her  ankle, 
and  you  carried  her  through  Hazel  Copse.  Ah,  you  never  told 
me  all  of  that  adventure,  either  of  you." 

"  All  that  was  necessary,  Katie." 

"Oh  !  I  have  pardoned  you.  Uncle  saw  then  that  she  was 
very  much  moved  at  something,  and  guessed  well  enough  what 
It  was.  He  is  so  very  kind,  and  so  fond  of  Mary,  he  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  that  she  wished.  She  was  quite  unwell 
that  evening ;  so  he  and  aunt  had  to  go  out  alone,  and  they 
met  that  Mr.  St.  Cloud  at  a  party,  who  was  said  to  be  engaged 
to  her." 

"  It  wasn't  true,  then  ?  " 

*•  No,  never.  He  is  a  very  designing  man,  though  I  believe 
he  was  really  in  love  with  poor  Mary.  At  any  rate,  he  has 
persecuted  her  for  more  than  a  year.  And,  it  is  very  wicked, 
but  I  am  afraid  he  spread  all  those  reports  himself." 

"  Of  their  engagement  ?    Just  like  him  ! " 

;<  Uncle  is  so  good-natured,  you  know,  and  he  took  advan- 
tage of  it,  and  was  always  coming  here,  and  riding  with  them. 
And  he  had  made  uncle  believe  dreadful  stories  about  you, 
which  made  him  seem  so  unkind.  He  was  quite  afraid  to  have 
you  at  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  that  last  year ;  and  the  second  coincidence  ?  " 

"  It  happened  that  very  night.     Poor  uncle  was  very  much 


THE  POSTSCRIPT.  541 

troubled  what  to  do  ;  so  when  he  met  Mr.  St.  Cloud,  as  I  told 
you,  he  took  him  aside  to  ask  him  again  about  you.  Somehow, 
a  gentleman  who  was  a  friend  of  yours  at  Oxford  overheard 
what  was  said,  and  came  forward  and  explained  everything." 

"  Yes,  he  came  and  told  me." 

u  Then  you  know  more  than  I  about  it." 

"  And  you  think  Mr.  Porter  is  convinced  that  I  am  not  quite 
such  a  scamp  after  all  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed  ;  and  the  boys  are  so  delighted  that  they  will 
see  you  again.  They  are  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and  so 
grown." 

"And  Mary?" 

"  She  is  very  well.  You  will  see  her  before  long,  I  dare- 
say." 

"Is  she  at  home?" 

"  She  is  out  riding  with  uncle.  Now  I  will  go  up  and  get 
your  parcel,  which  I  had  opened  at  home  before  I  got  aunt's 
note  asking  me  here.  No  wonder  we  could  never  find  her 
boot." 

Katie  disappeared,  and  at  the  same  time  Tom  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  horse's  feet.  Yes,  and  they  have  stopped, 
too ;  it  must  be  Mary  and  her  father.  He  could  not  see,  be- 
cause of  the  blinds  and  other  devices  for  keeping  the  room 
cool.  But  the  next  moment  there  were  voices  in  the  hall  be- 
low, and  then  a  light  step  on  the  carpeted  stair  which  no  ear 
but  his  could  have  heard.  His  heart  beat  with  heavy,  painful 
pulsations,  and  his.  head  swam  as  the  door  opened,  and  Mary  in 
her  riding-habit  stood  in  the  room. 

CHAPTER  L. 

THE    POSTSCRIPT. 

OUR  curtain  must  rise  once  again,  and  it  shall  be  on  a  famil- 
iar spot.  Once  more  we  must  place  ourselves  on  the  Hawk's 
Lynch,  and  look  out  over  the  well-known  view,  and  the  happy 
autumn  fields,  ripe  with  the  golden  harvest.  Two  people  are 
approaching  on  horseback  from  the  Barton  side,  who  have 
been  made  one  since  we  left  them  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain  in 
the  last  chapter.  They  ride  lovingly  together,  close  to  one 
another,  and  forgetful  of  the  whole  world,  as  they  should  do, 
for  they  have  scarcely  come  to  the  end  of  their  honeymoon. 

They  are  in  country  costume,  she  is  in  a  light  plain  habit> 
but  well  cut,  and  setting  on  her  as  well  as  she  sits  on  her  dainty 
gray ;  he  in  shooting-coat  and  wide-awake,  with  his  fishing-, 
basket  slung  over  his  shoulder.  They  come  steadily  up  the 
hill-side,  rousing  a  yellow-hammer  here  and  there  from  the 


5-12  fOUt  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

furze  bushes  and  only  draw  bit  when  they  have  reached  the 
very  top  of  the  knoll.  Then  they  dismount,  and  Tom  produces 
two  halters  from  his  fishing-basket,  and,  taking  off  the  bridles, 
fastens  the  horses  up  in  the  shade  of  the  fir-trees,  and  loosens 
their  girths,  while  Mary,  after  searching  in  the  basket,  pulls  out 
a  bag,  and  pours  out  a  prodigal  feed  of  corn  before  each  of 
them,  on  the  short  grass. 

i  "What  are  you  doing,  you  wasteful  little  woman?  Toe 
[should  have  put  the  bag  underneath.  They  won't  be  able  to 
pick  up  half  the  corn." 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  then  the  birds  will  get  it." 

*'  And  you  have  given  them  enough  for  three  feeds." 

"  Why  did  you  put  so  much  in  the  bag  ?  Besides,  you  know  it 
is  the  last  feed  I  shall  give  her.  Poor  dear  little  Gipsy,"  she 
added,  patting  the  neck  of  her  dapple  gray ;  "  you  have  found 
a  kind  mistress  for  her,  dear,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  will  be  lightly  worked,  and  well  cared  for,  "  ht 
said,  shortly,  turning  away,  and  busying  himself  with  the 
basket  again. 

"  But  no  one  will  ever  love  you,  Gipsy,  like  your  own  mis- 
tress. Now  give  me  a  kiss,  and  you  shall  have  your  treat," 
and  she  pulled  a  piece  of  sugar  out  of  the  pocket  of  her  riding 
habit,  at  the  sight  of  which  the  gray  held  out  her  beautiful 
nose  to  be  fondled,  and  then  lapped  up  the  sugar  with  eager 
lips  from  Mary's  hand,  and  turned  to  her  corn. 

The  young  wife  tripped  across  and  sat  down  near  her  hus- 
band, who  was  laying  out  their  luncheon  on  the  turf. 

"  It  was  very  dear  of  you  to  think  of  coming  here  for  our 
last  ride,"  she  said.  "I  remember  how  charmed  I  was-  with 
the  place  the  first  Sunday  I  ever  spent  at  Englebourn,  when 
Katie  brought  me  up  here  directly  after  breakfast,  before  we 
went  to  school.  Such  a  time  ago  it  seems — before  I  ever  saw 
you.  And  I  have  never  been  here  since.  But  I  love  it  most 
for  your  sake,  dear.  Now  tell  me  again  all  the  times  you  have 
been  here." 

Tom  proceeded  to  recount  some  of  his  visits  to  the  Hawk's 
Lynch  in  which  we  have  accompanied  him.  And  then  they  talked 
on  about  Katie,  and  East,  and  the  Englebourn  people,  past  and 
present,  old  Betty,  and  Harry  and  his  wife  in  New  Zealand, 
and  David  patching  coats  and  tending  bees,  and  executing  the 
queen's  justice  to  the  best  of  his  ability  in  the  village  at  their 
feet. 

"  Poor  David,  I  must  get  over  somehow  to  see  him  before 
we  leave  home.  He  feels  your  uncle's  death,  and  the  other 
thanges  in  the  parish,  more  than  any  one." 


THE 'POSTSCRIPT.  543 

"  I  am  so  sorry  the  living  was  sold,"  said  Mary ;  "  Katie 
and  her  husband  would  have  made  Englebourn  into  a  little 
paradise." 

"  It  could  not  be  helped,  dear.  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry.  There 
would  not  have  been  work  enough  for  him.  He  is  better  where 
he  is,  in  a  great  town  parish." 

"  But  Katie  did  love  the  place  so,  and  was  so  used  to  it,  she 
had  become  quite  a  little  queen  there  before  her  marriage.  See 
what  we  women  have  to  give  up  for  you,"  she  said,  playfully, 
turning  to  him.  But  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face,  and  he 
looked  away  without  answering. 

"  What  makes  you  look  sorrowful,  dear  ?  What  are  you 
thinking  of?" 

«  OM  nothing!  " 

"  That  isn't  true.  Now  tell  me  what  it  is.  You  have  no 
right,  you  know,  to  keep  anything  from  me." 

"  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  having  had  to  sell  Gipsy.  You 
have  never  been  without  a  riding-horse  till  now.  You  will  misg 
your  riding  dreadfully,  I  am  sure,  dear." 

"  I  shall  do  very  well  without  riding.  I  am  so  proud  of 
learning  r»v  lesson  from  you.  You  will  see  what  a  poor  man's 
wife  I  shall  make.  I  have  been  getting  mamma  to  let  me  do  the 
housekeeping,  and  know  how  a  joint  should  look,  and  all  sorts  of 
useful  things,  and  I  have  made  my  own  house-linen.  I  shall 
soon  get  to  hate  all  luxuries  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Now,  Mary,  you  mustn't  run  into  extremes.  I  never  said 
you  ought  to  hate  all  luxuries,  but  that  almost  everybody  one 
knows  is  a  slave  to  them." 

"  Well,  and  I  hate  anything  that  wants  to  make  a  slave  of 
me." 

"  You  are  a  dear  little  free  wman.  But  now  we  are  on  this 
subject  again,  Mary,  I  really  want  to  speak  to  you  about  keep- 
ing a  lady's  maid.  We  can  quite  afford  it,  and  you  ought  to 
have  one." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Not  to  oblige  me,  Mary  ?  " 

"  No,  not  even  to  oblige  yon.  There  is  something  to  be  said 
for  dear  Gipsy.  But,  take  a  maid  again !  to  do  nothing  but 
torment  me  and  pretend  to  take  care  of  my  clothes,  and  my 
hair  !  I  never  knew  what  freedom  was  till  I  got  rid  of  poor, 
foolish,  grumbling  Higgins." 

"  But  you  may  get  a  nice  girl  who  will  be  a  comfort  to  you." 

"  No,  I  never  will  have  a  woman  again  to  do  nothing  but 
look  after  me.  It  isn't  fair  to  them.  Besides,  dear,  you  can't 
say  that  I  don't  look  better  since  I  have  done  my  own  hair. 
Did  you  ever  see  it  look  brighter  than  it  does  now  2  " 


544  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"  Never,  and  now  here  is  luncheon  all  ready."  So  they  sat 
down  on  the  verge  of  the  slope,  and  eat  their  cold  chicken,  and 
tongue  with  the  relish  imparted  by  youth,  a  long  ride,  and  the 
bracing  air. 

Mary  was  merrier  and  brighter  than  ever,  but  it  was  an 
effort  with  him  to  respond  ;  and  soon  she  began  to  notice  this, 
and  then  there  was  a  pause,  which  she  broke  at  last  with  some- 
thing of  an  effort. 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  serious,  now  ?    I  must  know." 

"  Was  I  looking  serious  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  dearest  and  I 
won't  do  so  again  any  more  ; "  and  he  smiled  as  he  answered, 
but  the  smile  faded  away  before  her  steady,  loving  gaze,  and  he 
turned  slightly  from  her,  and  looked  out  over  the  vale  below. 

She  watched  him  for  a  short  time  in  silence,  her  own  fair 
young  face  changing  like  a  summer  sea,  as  the  light  clouds  pass 
over  it.  Presently  she  seemed  to  have  come  to  some  decision  ; 
for,  taking  off  her  riding-hat,  she  threw  it  and  her  whip  and 
gauntlets  on  the  turf  beside  her,  and  drawing  nearer  to  his 
side,  laid  her  hand  on  his.  He  looked  at  her  fondly,  and  strok- 
ing her  hair,  said, — 

"  Take  care  of  your  complexion,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  it  will  take  care  of  itself  in  this  air,  dear.  Besides,  you 
are  between  me  and  the  sun  ;  and  now  you  must  tell  me  why 
you  look  so  serious.  It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  noticed  that 
look.  I  am  your  wife,  you  know,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know 
your  thoughts,  and  to  share  all  your  joy,  and  all  your  sorrow. 
I  do  not  mean  to  give  up  any  of  my  rights  which  I  got  by 
marrying  you." 

"  Your  rights,  dearest ! — your  poor  little  rights,  which  you 
have  gained  by  changing  name,  and  plighting  troth.  It  is 
thinking  of  that, — thinking  of  what  you  have  bought,  and  the 
price  you  have  paid  for  it  which  makes  me  sad  at  times ;  even 
when  you  are  sitting  by  me,  and  laying  your  hand  on  my  hand,, 
and  the  sweet  burden  of  your  pure  life  and 'being  on  my  soiled 
and  baffled  manhood." 

"But  it  was  my  own  bargain,  you  know,  dear,  and  I  am 
satisfied  with  my  purchase.  I  paid  the  price  with  my  eyes  open." 

"  Ah,  if  I  could  only  feel  that ! " 

"  But  you  know  that  it  is  true." 

"  No,  dearest,  that  is  the  pinch.  I  do  not  know  that  it  is 
true.  I  often  feel  that  it  is  just  not  a  bit  true.  It  was  a  one- 
sided bargain,  in  which  one  of  the  parties  had  their  eyes  open 
and  got  all  the  advantage,  and  that  party  was  I." 

"I  will  not  have  you  so  conceited,  she  said,  patting  his 
band  once  or  twice,  and  looking  more  bravely  than  ever  up 


THE  POSTSCRIPT.  645 

into  his  eyes.  "  Why  should  you  think  you  were  so  much  the 
cleverer  of  the  two,  as  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  our  bargain  ? 
I  am  not  going  to  allow  that  you  were  so  much  the  most  quick- 
witted  and  clear-sighted.  Women  are  said  to  be  as  quick- 
witted as  men.  Perhaps  it  is  not  I  who  have  been  outwitted 
after  all." 

"  Look  at  the  cost,  Mary.  Think  of  what  you  will  have  to 
give  up.  You  cannot  reckon  it  up  yet." 

"  What !  you  are  going  back  to  the  riding-horses  and  lady's 
maid  again  I  thought  I  had  convinced  you  on  those  points." 

"  They  are  only  a  very  little  part  of  the  price.  You  have 
left  a  home  where  everybody  loved  you.  You  knew  it ;  you 
were  sure  of  it.  You  had  felt  their  love  ever  since  you  could 
remember  anything." 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  I  feel  it  still.  They  will  be  all  just  as  fond 
of  me  at  home,  though  I  am  your  wife." 

"  At  home  !     It  is  no  longer  your  home." 

"  No,  I  have  a  home  of  my  own  r  \v.  A  new  home,  with 
new  love  there  to  live  on  ;  and  an  old  home,  with  the  old  love 
to  think  of." 

"A  new  home  instead  of  an  old  one  ;  a  poor  home  instead 
of  a  rich  one — a  home  where  the  cry  of  the  sorrow  and  suffer- 
ing of  the  world  will  reach  you,  for  one  in  which  you  had — " 

"In  which  I  had  not  you,  dear.  There  now,  that  was  my 
purchase.  I  set  my  mind  on  having  you — buying  you,  as  that 
is  your  word.  I  have  paid  my  price,  and  got  my  bargain,  and 
—you  know,  I  was  always  an  oddity,  and  rather  wilful — am 
content  with  it." 

"Yes,  Mary,  you  have  bought  me,  and  you  little  know, 
dearest  what  you  have  bought.  I  can  scarcely  bear  my  own 
selfishness  at  times  when  I  think  of  what  your  life  might  have 
been  had  I  left  you  alone,  and  what  it  must  be  with  me." 

"And  what  might  it  have  been,  dear?" 

u  Why  you  might  have  married  some  man  with  plenty  of 
money,  who  could  have  given  you  everything  to  which  you 
have  been  used." 

**  I  shall  begin  to  think  that  you  believe  in  luxuries,  after  all,  if 
you  go  on  making  so  much  of  them.  You  must  not  go  on 
preaching  one  thing  and  practising  another.  I  am  a  convert  to 
your  preaching,  and  believe  in  the  misery  of  multiplying  arti- 
ficial wants.  Your  wife  must  have  none." 

"  Yes,  but  wealth  and  position  are  not  to  be  despised.  I 
feel  that,  now  that  it  is  all  done  past  recall,  and  I  have  to  think 
of  you.  But  the  loss  of  them  is  a  mere  nothing  to  what  you 
will  have  to  go  through." 


546  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?  Of  course  we  must  expect 
•ome  troubles,  like  other  people." 

"  Why,  I  mean,  Mary,  that  you  might,  at  least,  have  married 
a  contented  man ;  some  one  who  found  the  world  a  very  good 
world,  and  was  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are,  and  had  light 
enough  to  steer  himself  by;  and  not  a  fellow  like  me,  full  of 
all  manner  of  doubts  and  perplexities,  who  sees  little  but  wrong 
in  the  world  about  nim,  and  more  in  himself." 

"You  think  I  should  have  been  more  comfortable? " 

"  Yes,  more  comfortable  and  happier.  What  right  had  I 
to  bring  my  worries  on  you  ?  For  I  know  you  can't  live  with 
me,  dearest,  and  not  be  bothered  and  annoyed  when  I  am  anx- 
ious and  dissatisfied." 

"  But  what  if  I  did  not  marry  you  to  be  comfortable  ?" 

"  My  darling,  you  never  thought  about  it,  and  I  was  too  self* 
ish  to  think  for  you." 

"  There  now,  you  see,  it  is  just  as  I  said." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  quite  wrong  in  thinking  that  I  have 
been  deceived.  I  did  not  marry  you,  dear,  to  be  comfortable 
>— and  I  did  think  it  all  over;  ay,  over  and  over  again.  So  you 
are  not  to  run  away  with  the  belief  that  you  have  taken  me 
in." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  enough  to  give  it  up,  dearest  if  you  can 
convince  me." 

"  Then  you  will  listen  while  I  explain  ?  " 

"Yes,  with  all  my  ears  and  all  my  heart." 

"  You  remember  the  year  that  we  met,  when  we  danced  and 
went  nutting  together,  a  thoughtless  boy  and  girl — " 

"  Remember  it !     Have  I  ever — " 

"  You  are  not  to  interrupt.  Of  course  you  remember  it  all, 
and  are  ready  to  tell  me  that  you  loved  me  the  first  moment 
you  saw  me  at  the  window  in  High  Street.  Well,  perhaps  I 
shall  not  object  to  be  told  it  at  a  proper  time,  but  now  I  am 
making  my  confessions.  I  liked  you  then,  because  you  were 
Katie's  cousin,  and  almost  my  first  partner,  and  were  never 
tired  of  dancing,  and  were  generally  merry  and  pleasant,  though 
you  sometimes  took  to  lecturing,  even  in  those  days." 

"  But  Mary— " 

"  You  are  to  be  silent  now,  and  listen.  I  liked  you  then.  But 
you  are  not  to  look  conceited  and  flatter  yourself.  It  was  only 
a  girl's  fancy.  I  couldn't  have  married  you  then — given  myself 
up  to  you.  No,  I  don't  think  I  could,  even  on  the  night  when 
you  fished  for  me  out  of  the  window  with  the  heather  and  he- 
liotrope, though  I  kept  them  and  have  them  still.  And  then 


THE  POSTSCRIPT.  547 

came  that  scene  down  below,  at  old  Simon's  cottage,  and  I 
thought  I  should  never  wish  to  see  you  again.  And  then  I 
came  out  in  London,  and  went  abroad.  I  scarcely  heard  of 
you  again  for  a  year,  for  Katie  hardly  ever  mentioned  you  in 
her  letters ;  and  though  I  sometimes  wished  that  she  would, 
and  thought  that  I  should  just  like  to  know  what  you  were 
doing,  I  was  too  proud  to  ask.  Meantime,  I  went  out  and  en- 
joyed myself,  and  had  a  great  many  pretty  things  said  to  me— 
much  prettier  things  than  you  ever  said — and  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  pleasant  young  men,  friends  of  papa  and  mamma; 
many  of  them  with  good  establishments  too.  But  I  shall  not 
tell  you  anything  more  about  them,  or  you  will  be  going  off 
about  the  luxui'ies  I  have  been  used  to.  Then  I  began  to  hear 
of  you  again.  Katie  came  to  stay  with  us,  and  I  met  some 
of  your  Oxford  friends.  Poor  dear  Katie !  she  was  full  of  you 
and  your  wild  sayings  and  doings,  half  frightened  and  half 
pleased,  but  all  the  time  the  best  and  truest  friend  you  ever 
had.  Some  of  the  rest  were  not  friends  at  all ;  and  I  have 
heard  many  a  sneer  and  unkind  word,  and  stories  of  your 
monstrous  speeches  and  habits.  Some  said  you  were  mad ; 
others  that  you  liked  to  be  eccentric;  that  you  couldn't  bear  to 
live  with  your  equals  ;  that  you  sought  the  society  of  your  in- 
feriors to  be  flattered.  I  listened,  and  thought  it  all  over,  and 
being  wilful  and  eccentric  myself,  you  know,  liked  more  and 
more  to  hear  about  you,  and  hoped  I  should  see  you  again 
some  day.  I  was  curious  to  judge  for  myself,  whether  you 
were  much  changed  for  the  better  or  the  worse.  And  at  last 
came  the  day  when  I  saw  you  again,  carrying  the  poor  lame 
child  ;  and  after  that,  you  know  what  happened.  So  here  we 
are,  dear,  and  you  are  my  husband.  And  you  will  please 
never  to  look  serious  again,  from  any  foolish  thought  that  I 
have  been  taken  in ;  that  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  about 
when  I  took  you  'for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  till  death  us  do  part.'  Now,  what  have 
you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"  Nothing ;  but  a  great  deal  for  you.  I  see  more  and  more, 
my  darling,  what  a  brave,  generous,  pitying  angel  I  have  tied 
to  myself.  But  seeing  that  makes  me  despise  myself  more." 

"  What !  you  are  going  to  dare  to  disobey  me  already  ?  n 

"  I  can't  help  it,  dearest.  All  you  say  shows  me  more  and 
more  that  you  have  made  all  the  sacrifice,  and  I  am  to  get  all 
the  benefit.  A  man  like  me  has  no  right  to  bring  such  a  woman 
as  you  under  his  burden." 

"  But  you  couldn't  help  yourself.  It  was  because  you  were 
out  of  sorts  with  the  world,  smarting  with  the  wrongs  you  saw 


548  TOM  BROWN  AT  OXFORD. 

on  every  side,  struggling  after  something  better  and  higher, 
and  siding  and  sympathizing  with  the  poor  and  weak,  that  I 
loved  you.  We  should  never  have  been  here,  dear,  if  you  had 
been  a  young  gentleman  satisfied  with  himself  and  the  world, 
and  likely  to  get  on  well  in  society." 

"  Ah,  Mary,  it  is  all  very  well  for  a  man.  It  is  a  man's 
business.  But  why  is  a  woman's  life  to  be  made  wretched  ? 
Why  should  you  be  dragged  into  all  my  perplexities,  and 
doubts,  and  dreams,  and  struggles?" 

"  And  why  should  I  not?" 

"  Life  should  be  all  bright  and  beautiful  to  a  woman.  It 
is  every  man's  duty  to  shield  her  from  all  that  can  vex  or  pain, 
or  soil." 

"  But  have  women  different  souls  from  men  ?  " 

«  God  forbid ! " 

"  Then  are  we  not  fit  to  share  your  highest  hopes  ?  " 

"To  share  our  highest  hopes !  Yes,  when  we  have  any. 
But  the  mire  and  clay  where  one  sticks  fast  over  and  over 
again,  with  no  high  hopes  or  high  anything  else  in  sight — a 
man  must  be  a  selfish  brute  to  bring  one  he  pretends  to  love 
into  all  that." 

"  Now,  Tom,"  she  said,  almost  solemnly,  "  you  are  not  true 
to  yourself.  Would  you  part  with  your  own  deepest  con- 
victions ?  Would  you,  if  you  could,  go  back  to  the  time  when 
you  cared  for  and  thought  about  none  of  these  things  ?  " 

lie  thought  a  minute,  and  then,  pressing  her  hand,  said, — 

"  No,  dearest,  I  would  not.  The  consciousness  of  the  dark- 
ness in  one  and  around  one  brings  the  longing  for  light.  And 
then  the  light  dawns  ;  through  mist  and  fog,  perhaps,  but 
enough  to  pick  one's  way  by."  He  stopped  a  moment,  and  then 
added,  "  and  shines  ever  brighter  unto  the  perfect  day.  Yes, 
I  begin  to  know  it." 

"Then  why  not  put  me  on  your  own  level?  Why  not  let 
me  pick  my  way  by  your  side?  Cannot  a  woman  feel  the 
wrongs  that  are  going  on  in  the  world?  Cannot  she  long  to 
see  them  set  right,  and  pray  that  they  may  be  set  right?  We 
are  not  meant  to  sit  in  fine  silks,  and  look  pretty,  and  spend 
money,  any  more  than  you  are  meant  to  make  it,  and  cry  peace 
where  there  is  no  peace.  If  a  woman  cannot  do  much  herself,  she 
can  honor  and  love  a  man  who  can." 

He  turned  to  her,  and  bent  over  her,  and  kissed  her  forehead, 
and  kissed  her  lips.  She  looked  up  with  sparkling  eyes,  and 

ici,— 

"Am  I  not  right,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  and  I  have  been  false  to  my  creed*    Yo» 


THE  POSTSCRIPT.  649 

have  taken  a  load  off  my  heart,  dearest,  Henceforth  there 
shall  be  but  one  mind  and  one  soul  between  us.  You  have 
made  me  feel  what  it  is  that  a  man  wants,  what  is  the  help  that 
is  mete  for  him.'"' 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  kissed  her  again  ;  and  then  rose 
up,  for  there  was  something  within  him  like  a  moving  of  new 
life,  which  lifted  htm,  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  And  he  stood 
with  kindling  brow,  gazing  into  the  autumn  air,  as  his  heart 
went  sorrowing,  but  hopefully  "  sorrowing,  back  through  all 
the  faultful  past."  And  she  sat  on  at  first,  and  watched  his  face, 
and  neither  spoke  nor  moved  for  some  minutes.  Then  she  rose, 
too,  and  stood  by  his  side  :— 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold,— 

And  so  across  the  hills  they  went, 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 

Yes,  that  new  world,  through  the  golden  gates  of  which  they 
had  passed  together,  which  is  the  old,  old  world  after  all,  and 
nothing  else.  The  same  old  and  new  world  it  was  to  our 
fathers  amd  mothers  as  it  is  to  us,  and  shall  be  to  our  children, 
—a  world  clear  and  bright,  and  ever  becoming  clearer  and 
brighter  to  the  humble,  and  true,  and  pure  of  heart,  to  every 
man  and  woman  who  will  live  in  it  as  the  children  of  the  Maker 
and  Lord  of  it,  their  Father.  To  them,  and  to  them  alone,  ia 
that  world,  old  and  new,  given,  and  all  that  is  in  it,  fully  and 
freely  to  enjoy.  All  others  but  these  are  occupying  where  they 
have  no  title ;  "  they  are  sowing  much,  but  bringing  in  little  j 
they  eat,  but  have  not  enough  ;  they  drink,  but  are  not  filled 
with  drink ;  they  clothe  themselves,  but  there  is  none  warm ; 
and  he  of  them  who  earneth  wages,  earneth  wages  to  put  them 
into  a  bag  with  holes.5"1  But  these  have  the  world  and  ail  things 
for  a  rightful  and  rich  inheritance,  for  they  hold  them  as  dear 
children  of  him  in  whose  hand  it  and  they  are  lying,  auJ  no 
power  in  earth  or  kell  suaii  pluck  them  out  of  their 
hand. 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  arejsplil Ask  tor  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  tine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a. 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ay  res  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  ft  Dunlap'8  list. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell!  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Cappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Gromt  &  Donlip't  list 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  mail's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human- 
ity, and  of  a  beautiful  girl  s  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into 
a  courageous  Strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  become  involved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  wtth  breathless 
situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
schema  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan- 
cial complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  make 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turns 
out  as  it  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  is  a 
real  story  of  the  Great  Far  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  b  men  he  had 
trusted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygerne 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGHS 
NOVELS 

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TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan'  s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter*  s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  "plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap-i 
pear,  Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series. '  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car- 
ter and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP.  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 


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THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

The  scene  of  this  splendid  story  is  laid  in  India  and 
tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 

GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 

THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
"a  hundredth  chance." 

THE  SWINDLER 

The  story  of  a  "bad  man's"  soul  revealed  by  a 
woman's  faith. 

THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 

THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.  The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


BOOTH  TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

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SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  tune  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

!  This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

Atk  for  Complete  free  list  of  G.   &  D.   Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

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ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 
THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT    "'• 
THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 
WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION)  "* 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THK  DESERT* 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 
THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 
DESERT  GOLD 
BETTY  ZANE 

•*••••• 
LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER  ' 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER. 

THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 

•; 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED'OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

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THE  RIVER'S  END  " 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland.* 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  torn 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  bl 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  a 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  his 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventur*  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women. 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


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